Grace for Cheap
by The Fifth Champion
Summary: AU. Loki is an impoverished, orphaned pianist with a very dark past. Thor is a wealthy, famous athlete - spoiled and arrogant. By chance or fate, Thor walks in on Loki's - a stranger's - attempted suicide. How will their lives collide? Is there a reason behind it? And what about Loki's past ties them together? Something wicked lurks behind chance encounters. Thorki. No incest.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And will continue to own nothing throughout the rest of this story. Therefore, I believe this one disclaimer at the beginning of the story will suffice.

**A/N:** I'm going to attempt to avoid the huge rants I often give in author's notes. I will instead summarize. Basically, I'm a basket case and anxiety-prone. And when I feel this way, I write. About whatever inspires me. Lately, this has been movieverse Loki, thus this fanfic was born.

**This "prologue" is meant to be a newspaper clipping. **Also, I do **NOT** plan on this story being graphically or explicitly gory, but there is certainly** reference** to torture/violence/disturbing images. It's kind of grim, but very necessary for the plot. I wanted to have the warning out there.

I'm planning on posting the first chapter some time tonight. Hopefully, hopefully, this happens. I know myself to be a very inconsistent, unreliable, fickle fanfiction writer. But the chapter is almost done, so again, HOPEFULLY.

Not that I honestly expect anyone to read this. And gah, this note is ALREADY too long!

* * *

**Grace for Cheap**

* * *

**A WAKING NIGHTMARE: MUTILATED BOY DISCOVERED HIDING IN THE**

**CARNAGE OF FELLOW ORPHANS**

Loki Laufeyson, one of the twelve missing orphans from The Asgard Orphanage, was discovered yesterday cowering underneath a pile of dead bodies in an abandoned warehouse. After a year and a half of nearly fruitless searching, authorities finally picked up on a threadbare trail leading from the orphanage in upstate New York to a desolate collection of buildings in Southeast Oregon. While information remains frustratingly (and suspiciously) shady on how and who pinpointed this location, an anonymous member of the SWAT team accredits the discovery to "faulty air tickets, unnamed eye witnesses of suspicious activity, and painstaking analysis of illegal modes of transport." Although this vague comment provides no real explanations, the team has been clear on a one fact: Loki Laufeyson is the only living survivor of the now infamous "Asgard Kidnapping Case."

Ironically the youngest and smallest of the orphans, 10-year-old Laufeyson embodies both the horror of the incident and the sheer willpower to live. Authorities not only report starvation and dehydration, but bruised forearms that suggest forced needle entrance; lacerations from knives and whippings; burns from what appears to be a cigarette lighter and multiple black-and-blues on his back, stomach, and ribcage. SWAT team member Roberts reluctantly claims, "He was more like a wounded animal than a little boy when we found him…he wouldn't let us go near him for the longest time." Roberts refused to give further commentary, but sources state that he, along with many other trained and professional agents, will be attending long term therapy.

They cannot be blamed. Laufeyson was not only found in a warehouse full of murdered children. He was not only found abused beyond recognition.

He was found with his mouth stitched shut.

_(Cont. on pg. 5)_


	2. Chapter One: Thunder

**A/N: **AH. So, you guys have already witnessed firsthand how _very _inconsistent I am when it comes to updates. :/ I meant to publish this days ago, but it just wasn't ready. Or done. Ended up being a lot longer than I expected.

Unfortunately, I still hate it. The Loki bits are tolerable; the Thor bits are atrocious. **But I promise you that this fic will start sounding - er- more like an _actual _story come next chapter.** I really wanted to emphasize the difference in Loki's and Thor's lives here - thus the dual P.O.V. For the rest of the story, I'll be trading off between chapters. One chapter will be from Loki's P.O.V., the next from Thor's, etc.

* * *

**In other news: OMG! I was not expecting the turn around that this got - and when all I put up was a very demented, measly paragraph! ****Honestly, I'm amazed and honored that so many of you took an interest in this idea! **

**midnight6277: **Omg! First comment! Woot! Really appreciate your enthusiasm - wow, what an honor! I hope you enjoy the emerging plot line. This story _is _supposed to have one (I have a plot sheet and everything, lolz), but this chapter mostly sets up things to come.

**Guest #1:** I'm so glad! Thanks!

**Singer Salvage:** Wow, thanks! I'm glad you find it interesting - I hope you enjoy the chapter!

**Guest #2:** Thanks so much! Ah, and thanks for commenting on the newspaper format. I found it interesting to write, even if I'm not entirely satisfied with how it turned out - but then, I'm rarely satisfied.

**ABECrudele:** And I was aiming for chilling! I'm glad it came across. I hope you (somewhat) enjoy the story. I swear it will make more sense after this chapter...

**Wings of Darkness:** It's not a sin, it's a blessing! Thanks so much for reading!

**Guest #3:** I was intending on a shock factor, so I'm glad you felt it, even if I feel a bit guilty about it too (why don't I ever have any fluffy, cuddly plot lines?) - but I'm honored you're interested!

**Guest #4:** Thanks, thanks, thanks!

* * *

"_Cast down for your sins;_

_Come here for redemption;_

_We've got grace for cheap, _

_We've got grace for cheap." _

"Grace for Sale," _The Devil's Carnival _

**Chapter One **

**Thunder **

Loki wakes to the storm and its low baying of thunder sounds like wolves to him.

His room is small and its walls thin. Tattered curtains are stretched over the lone window, but still he imagines the clouds that must be lurching across the sky – great clouds, he imagines, gray and wild and thoughtless – massive things that chase each other across an endless void – yowling, howling, growling as they do so – the clouds are thunder, and thunder is wolves. So he imagines wolves, slavering, stupid creatures, all dull eyes and dripping jaws, and he imagines them tramping about in pointless circles, bloody maws and snuffling noses and jagged claws, and he knows they are here to make today just a little bit harder, just a little bit uglier, just a little bit fouler.

Loki smiles tartly. He went to bed reading mythologies, so he wakes up dreaming of wolves. In reality, he knows thunder has nothing to do with canines. Thunder is the sound of lightning. And lightning is a flash and a vibration. That is all.

Besides, he will not let thunder (in either wolfish metaphor or scientific fact) ruin this day.

Today his body and his mind and the remnants of his soul (if there is a soul; he doubts it) will reach their equilibrium.

Loki stands up and feels blood tingling in his fingertips. His bedroom is bare, a pale, boxy space with no color or personality or depth, a place full of nothingness. Like him. Its floor creaks, cold, and its hollow walls are peeling; he can hear the rats scurrying behind the plaster, squirming away from the roars and the bangs of thunder. When the rain begins to fall (and it falls soon, almost as soon as Loki straightens up), it drives against the roof in thick, hard pellets, a wet stain spreading across the ceiling like a canopy, raindrops clinging to the surface before splattering against his shoulder. He ignores the dampness, the chill feeling.

He folds the blankets (thin and musty, sallow) with a neat precision. His movements are nimble, his mind as sharp and cutting as glass. He feels calm. There is no rush of adrenaline, no rapid influx of emotion, no terrible smothering of joy and tragedy – there is only the steady beating of his heart (_calm, calm, calm_) and a quiet certainty settling in his core, as still and peaceful as fallen snow. His fingers do not jerk or tremble as he makes his bed for the last time. His eyes do not sweep over the frayed patches on the sheets or the limp pillow with anything resembling warmth or nostalgia. His motions are mechanical, his thoughts diamond-hard.

_Make the bed. Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Comb your hair. _

He hears the commands from faraway, and it's like he's detached from himself, it's like he's watching himself and he's a stranger.

_Pack your clothes. Keep the curtains drawn. Disconnect the phone. Lock the door. _

Thunder (or is that the sound of wolves, baying?) booms and the little apartment quivers.

But no, he will not let the thunder ruin this day.

Today is the day Loki Laufeyson will die.

* * *

Thor wakes to the storm and its hearty rumble of thunder sounds like lions to him.

He does not mind. Lions are regal beasts, like him.

His room is plush and its walls elaborate. He would not have heard the gale lashing against crystallized glass panes, but last night he wedged his window open – and now the breeze cascades into his chambers, tangling velvet draperies. The curtains are thick and fine and wine-colored: they whisper of wealth, spreading their expensive folds elegantly in the wind, fluttering with a haunted life; they might have looked like crimson phantoms to a more imaginative mind. But to Thor they are simply cloth; he shoves them aside idly, his electric-blue eyes searching the sky with avid interest.

Outside the world is cool and gray as quartz, crackling with energy. He feels the spirit of the storm, wild and free and uncontrolled, brewing in his blood, singing in his lungs, leaping with every bound of his heart. When lightning flashes, he can almost taste it, and it's a raw flavor in his mouth, an invigorating shock in his throat. It's like swallowing fire and it burns his blood with inexplicable power. And he knows he's alive. Thunder roars and he cannot tell whether the sound comes from the clouds or his core: it's a natural part of him, the very crux of his soul, older than his heartbeat, more vital than his breath – this unearthly song that rumbles across tumultuous heavens – the song of an untamed spirit – fierce and unruly and proud – and the thunder is _him, _it is _him, it is him. _

And he knows he's alive.

Thor smiles as another clap of thunder shakes the streets below.

It is a good omen.

He still remembers last week's victory (a victory he single-handedly won) as sharp and vivid as a snapshot. The smell of fresh grass fills his nose and the slippery feel of mud beneath his feet returns to him; he remembers huge bodies hulking towards him and the hot sweat clinging to his brow, the pounding heat of his helmet; he recalls the rough surface of the ball pressed against his palm; and he will never forget the sight of that ball soaring way over the goalposts, swallowed in the lavender mists of twilight – the eruption of screams (_thunderous_) from the audience – and then teammates piling on him, the laughter escaping from his throat – the sheer delicious reality of _we've won, we've won – I've won. _

The Thunderers would move onto the Super Bowl because of _his _triumph.

_And I will win us that as well, now that we are back in New York, _Thor thinks somehow roguishly, a grin crooking his lips.

After months of games, after plodding through half the country, the famous football team had returned to their mother-state for the Super Bowl. And Thor had gotten a couple of weeks to sleep in his own bed, in his own house.

Thunder rumbles and it feels like home.

Thor watches the man in the mirror with satisfaction.

Life is flawless.

* * *

When Loki walks outside, no one sees him.

The mist and the rain and the thunder swallow him entirely, and no one notices the tall, dark, poker-thin figure swathed in a tatty overcoat, striding down the streets. Loki does not mind. He enjoys invisibility, especially today. Invisibility means peace and solitude and a silent liberation; attention translates into a stranger in a white coat and clipboard shoving pills down your throat because, of course, she (or he) knows your brain and your body better than you do. Best to listen. Best to be still. Best to sit quietly in a room with no color and no light and nod obediently while you pretend to not want to die. (_Best, best, best_ – best to tell lies, sweet as silver).

Or then the ones that ogle you; the simpering eyes and the crooning smiles; the guilty glances and morbid curiosity cloaked in pity –

_"Oh…are you…oh…" ("It's the boy who had his mouth sewn shut!") _

_ "Ah…Laufeyson, I see –" ("It's the Warehouse Kid!") _

_ "I'm so, so sorry…" ("How did you survive? What happened? What happened? What happened?") _

No, no. Invisibility is better.

Anyway, _they _are always watching – the Faceless and the Woman and the Dead Children.

Eleanor watches him, blood dripping down her chin.

He only sees her in his periphery vision, and when he blinks, she vanishes. _Not real, _the mantra would usually begin, but today, it does not matter. Today she might as well be real. Today the boundaries between _sane _and _insanity _will snap like a gossamer thread and he'll return to the beginning and it will finally be the end. _Over, over, over._

Loki pulls his coat tighter to him as the rain descends harder.

It's strange, he realizes distantly, how today, on the advent of his conclusion, that his body should feel so alive. He feels every droplet of water seeping through the fabric of his clothes, kissing at his chilly skin. He feels the wind rake its ragged fingernails against his cheek. And he feels his heart, that pitiable muscle that beats meaninglessly, pointlessly, mechanically in his chest, circulating blood, circulating breath, circulating that bizarre half-life that clings to him like a phantom. Oh, how he detests it. The heart. The blood. The breath.

The (half) life.

But Loki detests a lot of things – humanity being one of them.

Thunder roars again as he steps down into the subway station, its voice overbearing.

He decides he does not like thunder much either.

* * *

When Thor walks outside, everyone sees him.

Not at first, of course, because privacy and law suits protect the sprawling home upstate from media and paparazzi – but the moment his Mercedes melts into the teeming traffic of Manhattan, it happens. People on the sidewalks point and wave and smile; drivers glance a little too long when they glimpse his profile in their rearview mirror; cars stop and windows roll down and some voices add their cries to the din of city life, shouting _"Odinson!" _or _"Thunderers!" _or _"Oh my God, it that really him –?" _And Thor cannot suppress the grin itching to spread across his lips because the energy is golden and palpable and entirely contagious.

He comes here today to celebrate.

After months away, training and winning games, he will finally be visiting his parents. He conjures them now in his mind: Frigga, elegant in her later years, her hair delicately curled; her hands still full of motherly caresses; and Odin, somehow both rugged and refined, his good eye stern, but his smile prideful atop his snowy white beard. He knows them so well. He can almost imagine their conversation – Mother will congratulate him, then move on to fret about Father's health, arguing that running a corporation is simply _too much _for a man his age (all while staring pointedly at Thor) – to which Odin will respond, with a gruff shake of the head, that he's not _so _addled that he cannot handle a few bumps in the corporate world.

Thor knows his father, old and wise and vigorous, will refuse to retire – even if it comes to overseeing Asgard Enterprise from a computer screen in his bedroom. Secretly, Thor feels grateful: he pretends not to notice his mother's subtle remarks, but he's in the thick of his athletic career and he has no desire to take on the wearisome mantle of the family business. Sometimes he wishes he had a younger sibling to do the job for him, but his slight mother had difficulty with her pregnancy; another birth would have been hazardous for her.

Still, he looks forward to seeing them. They both resonate with pride at his success – and he understands that they live entirely for him. This reunion will be joyous because he has done well. And will continue to do well.

Thor cannot imagine a time when he will _not _do well.

And Sif will be there too, of course. Always Sif.

The restaurant rears regal and resplendent before him. Thor doesn't notice its grandeur, the high mullioned windows glittering with a dozen candles, the velvety awning stretching over the polished oak doors like a royal canopy – instead he swerves rashly into the parking lot, laughing at the cacophony of honks and screeches that follows the motion. He hands a stunned lot attendant his key and strolls to the entrance with an easy, confident gait.

Thor does not register the finery (he's seen too much of it to care), but he certainly notices the flush on the doorman's face.

The man nearly blends in with his cultured surroundings. He's a small, mousy figure, primly dressed, his tailored suit the same shade of black as the door behind him; his fingers, gloved in fine white fabric, hesitate as they squeeze the burnished doorknob. His glasses are small and round and over-shined.

"Er, Mr. Odinson – " And it's the nervous little catch in his throat, the awkward stoop of his shoulders, that makes Thor predict exactly what will come next, "I know you're off right now, but –"

"Who should I make it out to?"

The doorman gawks and Thor booms out his laughter. The thunder overhead mimics the sound, rich and deep and powerful.

"That is what you want, isn't it? Or have I misunderstood you?"

The man nearly trips in his eagerness; he pulls out a slip of paper with fumbling fingers and stammers his thanks again and again as Thor leans against the doorframe and scrawls a sloppy signature.

"It's just my son; he loves to watch you play – and I knew if I saw you – and especially after your last game (_amazing _throw, by the way) –"

"Of course, of course!" Thor chortles, and this whole thing feels very natural and comfortable for him, "Tell your boy he's rooting for the right team."

"Yes – oh, I know, I know," the doorman says breathlessly, pulling the door open in one fluid motion, "Good luck at the Super Bowl, Mr. Odinson, sir."

But Thor is entirely serious when he answers,

"I don't need any luck."

* * *

The woman behind the counter does not trust Loki.

She has good reason. Loki smiles, and it's thin-lipped, bloodless.

The receptionist's mouth does not budge from its shapeless line. She surveys him over her spectacles, her manicured nails tapping suspiciously against the keys of her computer. Her gaze is brittle and haughty as she inspects him, a sweeping skepticism that skims over the patches on his coat before resting disapprovingly on his frayed sleeves and battered collar. She studies the gauntness of his cheek and the sunken aspect of his eyes, and he knows that she knows he doesn't belong here – his hair might be swept back cleanly, but everything else about him embodies a bitter neglect and the grimness of poverty.

This hotel is made for luxurious souls. Loki has walked unbidden into a landscape unrecognizable; into a palace of gold-papered walls and glossy marble floors. Everything here glitters, the glass countertop and the silver vases and the chandelier festooned with a thousand diamonds – the glitter hangs bright and sharp in the air and tastes like someone else's dream, like some faraway, half-remembered fairytale no one bothered to tell him. He feels distant from himself. The dangling gems from the chandelier are cruel and faceted; they cast refracted, multicolored light everywhere, and thorny rainbows stab at his vision, blinding him. He doesn't belong here. Go away, go away, go away, the crystals of this place tell him. You are not valuable. You are not beautiful. You are nothing. You are the tattered remains of someone unwanted.

Loki ignores them. He has plotted this day meticulously – for months, for a year.

He wants to end grandly.

No. He _needs _to end grandly.

"Um…yes," the receptionist mumbles, still clacking uselessly (and rather irritatingly) on her keyboard. "Laufeyson, you said your name was? Are you sure you can afford a room here?"

She wears too much makeup, Loki notes. Her blush looks like grotesque, clotted roses on her upper cheekbones.

"Oh, I'll be fine," he responds, and the words come out silver, his smile suddenly smooth and slippery as silk, "I know I don't look like much, but I'm working as a pianist a few blocks down at a restaurant. My boss convinced me to stay here…he's going to reimburse me for all my expenses."

Loki is an excellent liar. His smile is a virus and the receptionist catches it quickly. She accepts his credit card without further argument and nods him down a long corridor lined with Persian carpets.

He feels unmistakably calm.

His room is fragile, like the inside of a gilded egg shell. Everything is gold, gold, gold – the veils clustered by the windows are a waterfall of glorious yellow, the bed-sheets have all the sleekness of precious metals. The bathroom is a cool, spacious alcove, draped in shadows, but its tub and facet and showerhead gleam a polished bronze. Loki steps into the space quietly and when he turns on the tap the water runs soft and white over his fingertips, whispering against his skin.

He's still calm. In the corner of the mirror, he sees the blurry image of Eleanor, watching him, haunted. But it does not matter, it does not matter. Everything will come full circle today. And he's still very calm.

Loki does not turn on the lights. His heart beats placidly; either unaware or uncaring that it soon will die. He leaves the water murmuring in the sink; he turns towards the shower and pulls back the curtains (also gold) before twisting on the knobs here as well – liquid shoots from the showerhead, hissing violently as it thuds against the bottom of the tub, almost drowning out the faint babble of the sink. And outside the thunder roars against what must now be a nighttime sky – roars and thrashes like some unseen, wounded beast, but Loki feels faraway from it now, so faraway, faraway, faraway. And very calm, so calm, so calm he's cold. Calmness is ice and ice is sleep.

Now not only Eleanor watches. They all watch him, grungy clothes and torn faces. The Dead Children.

But life goes round and round and round and comes full circle. He'd come back; he'd always come back.

He told them so.

Loki looks in the mirror, knowing (calmly, calmly) that this will be the last time he sees himself, but the darkness warps his reflection, makes him something else. His irises fade to blackness in the gloom; his eyes resemble empty sockets; and the white of his skin shines like a skull here – his hair drips, raven-colored, into the surrounding shadows – and he looks like a demon, or a monster, something tormented and twisted and wraithlike. When he was a little boy, if they would let him, he would sit in the dark for hours and stare at his reflection, watching the inky blackness sift over his face, bruise his features, make him someone else. Someone dead or someone dying.

Loki smiles and cannot remember if the semicircle his mouth forms now is the silver one he reserves for strangers or genuine happiness. He has forgotten.

And he's so calm. So calm that he's almost frozen.

His satchel lies at his feet, a bedraggled thing. He brought it with him. He could take pills, he knows, it would be painless, like dissolving, but that tastes of cowardice to him – and he needs to go the way they did. Bloodily.

Is it normal to be so calm?

His fingers do not shake. Everything here is gold. He slides the little blade from his satchel, and his mind, which is very still and silent and cold, remarks that its edge winks silver in the dark, silver like his smile, like his lies. And his heart beats, one, two, three, rhythmic as a lullaby. He will die grandly here, surrounded by blood and water and grandeur. His breathing is even. He places the knife tip against his skin (it bites like frost) and sees roses blooming from his wrists. And Eleanor looks accusatory – why? She does not think he's moving fast enough, most likely, but he knows their deaths were slow and gradual, and he needs to mimic their last breaths of life, the walls of a bathroom now the walls of a warehouse. And everything comes full circle and his life spins like a paradox, like a snake eating its tail. He feels nothing and he's so calm, so calm, calm like ice, and everything is gold – so why is his tongue silver? He's silver, but he's also corroded. He watches his smile, silver and rust, collapse in on itself. He's not hallucinating. Roses everywhere and darkness falling and water running and faraway, the thunder and wolves and a distant keening. But everything is gold here, even the Dead Children, craning over him, dressed in murder. Everything is gold….gold…gold…

…and calm as ice.

* * *

The woman behind the podium smirks at Thor.

He grins back – perhaps a little more cheekily than usual – because Sif stands beside him, tall and regal in her silk shirt and dress pants, and he can see her suppressing a scowl.

Thor knows the smirking woman well. Her mother owns the restaurant, and as she is a close friend of Frigga's, the Odinsons are frequent customers here. He still remembers the day his parents introduced them: Thor had been ten at the time, very bored and very irritated at being coerced into a suit and ushered around stuffy, ornament-cluttered rooms. Frigga had yanked him over to a little girl with curly red hair and wide tulle skirt, proclaimed that her name was Roxanne, and that the two of them were going to be "very nice friends!" The moment Frigga was out of earshot, Thor had stuck his tongue out at her, and Roxanne had kicked him in the shin. They had spent the rest of the evening pinching each other under the table; until it was time to leave – Roxanne had snatched up his wrist and dragged him around a corner and kissed him.

He thinks the memory sums up their relationship pretty well.

They have dated since, certainly, several times in adolescence and adulthood – but their relationship is always a brief flare, sizzling out after a month or two.

Sif has never liked Roxanne. "Shallow," she calls her, "Shallow and spoiled and frivolous – sort of like _you_, Thor," but Thor only laughs at this and Sif has no choice but to smile.

Roxanne now dips her glittery gaze down to skim a list of reservations.

"Ah, yes. We have a table in the back for the rising athlete and his lucky family," she croons, flicking back a curl flirtatiously and leaning forward on the podium. Her blouse, laced with genuine, milky-white pearls, swoops in a very low neckline.

Thor chuckles deep in his chest. "I think you have me confused with another guest, Roxanne. I'm definitely more than a _rising _athlete," the grin that slides over his mouth is full and indulgent, "But then – I suppose it must be difficult for you to keep up with the times, eh, Roxy? Your mother still has you waiting on tables like a middleclass waitress."

Roxanne's mouth is a smudge of vivid red lipstick. She taps the laminated list of reservations in a precise, almost dangerous manner.

"Ouu, clever, you big lug," she murmurs, her long, snaky earrings tinkling as she moves still closer to Thor, "Why don't you stop by after hours and I'll show you how busy I am –"

"– _Hello, _Roxanne," Sif's voice cuts cleanly over the redhead's words, steeped in steel.

Thor throws back his lion's mane in a fit of laughter. Sif stands poised and perfectly erect, her black hair pin-straight and fluid as it runs down her angular cheeks.

He has known her even longer than Roxanne. She has always been beautiful, but sharp, cutthroat, like a crystalline blade, shimmering in shadows. When they were little, Sif spurned pointy shoes, despised princesses, cut off the hair of all her baby dolls and once muddied her best dress while wrestling Thor in her mother's garden during a rainstorm. Oh, how they were scolded for that one: Sif's parents had barricaded her in her room for weeks and Frigga had twisted Thor's ear until he formally apologized to Sif's mother for crushing her tulips.

Like Roxanne, Thor met her through their parents: Sif's father still works for Odin at Asgard Enterprises.

Unlike Roxanne, Thor has never dated Sif.

Thor thinks it a strange predicament. Certainly, as a child, he saw her as a separate species than giggly, frilly girls like Roxy; she was his fearless playmate, nervy and ruthless and _fun,_ the same as Fandral or Volstagg or Hogun. However, as they grew older, Thor realized that Sif's strength was a multifaceted attribute: She was probably the deadliest person he knew (How many forms of martial arts does she know? Can he even count them all?), but also fiercely loyal and extremely protective. He will never forget the time she punched a boy in the eye for muttering rude things about Thor's mother. And as abrasive as she could be, Sif could also be warm and compassionate, attentive and supportive. Thor knows if he ever needed to talk about serious matters (though when that might happen, he cannot fathom), Sif would listen to him; that she would not snort or roll her eyes or judge.

So why are they not together?

Thor cannot say. He's not entirely sure. He's only aware that they skirt around each other awkwardly, as if dancing some unwieldy, uncomfortable dance, evading each other's eyes, their fingers never brushing. On several occasions, friends and teammates and even admirers interrogated him about Sif, but his answer always remained the same: "We are friends; good friends; the best of friends."

And that is all.

There was once – _just _once – a strange, strained moment when Sif asked Thor out on a date, but she retracted the request almost immediately the next day, leaving nothing but a question lingering insubstantial between them. _Are we not meant to be more than friends? _

Still, Thor has always found Sif's irritableness with Roxy to be humorous. He has never met two women so entirely different.

"Oh, Sif!" Roxanne's voice rises high and false and gaudy now, severing Thor's thoughts, "I didn't even _recognize _you without your dirt and your man's uniform!"

This makes Thor frown slightly. Sif's employment is an honorable one – she is the renowned head of the New York police force; crime has significantly diminished since her leadership. He does not see why Roxanne should antagonize Sif about such work.

"Roxy –" he starts, but Sif waves his words away with a careless hand.

"Thank you, Roxanne," she smiles blithely, though her dark eyes are like concrete, "And you look like…a _princess, _as always."

It's something about the delicate pressure on _princess, _the little twitch of Sif's lips, that reminds Thor of the time she threw her bedraggled princess doll into the fireplace just to watch it burn.

"Oh, Thor! Sif! You two are early! We apologize for being so late – your father's a little under the weather –"

Frigga's cries chase away the tension between the two women. Thor turns to see his mother hurrying down the ornate lobby, towing what appears to be a disgruntled Odin in her wake. Her evening gown rustles imperiously as she walks, her gait swift yet elegant; Odin steps importantly besides her, looking both rugged and firm. He notices the two are doused with moisture – the rain seems to be falling along with the oncoming night.

Thor shoots the sort of roguish grin he knows will irk his mother.

"Frigga!" He booms, extending his arms wide, "We have been here for hours! What could possibly have taken you so long?"

The older woman scowls as she reaches them, tapping her fingers in a playful smack over Thor's prominent jaw.

"Don't you _dare _call your mother that," she chastises, but her eyes glimmer warmly, and in the next minute she's running her fingers lovingly over his bristled cheeks, touching the blonde hair, "Oh, _look _at you," she breathes, squeezing her son's face in a burst of affection, "We're so proud, Thor. Truly. So proud."

"Mother," Thor pretends to groan, "For God's sake, I'm a grown man," but he still cups her shoulders genially and places a kiss on her glowing cheek.

When he turns to his father, Odin appears just as rugged and vital as ever. He will never understand Frigga's incessant worries about his health.

"Father," he says, clasping the man's hand gruffly, feeling strength and calluses on that palm, "It is good to see you."

A smile peeps out from Odin's white beard. "My son," he replies, clenching Thor's broad shoulder in a vigorous grip, "Your mother is right. We are very proud."

And he knows they are. They always will be. Always, always.

Dinner passes in a happy blur of predictable conversation and steadily decreasing alcohol.

Some small, vaguely responsible part of him, tucked away in the furthest corner of his mind, mutters that he probably shouldn't drink so much at a family reunion, but Thor feels so _content _at this moment, so very _pleased_ with the shape and the color and the fortunes of his life, and the way Sif's eyes float to the ceiling whenever he orders another glass is just too amusing to ignore. With each mouthful of rum or vodka or foreign beer, the night unravels further into velvety tendrils of laughter and smiles and thunder and his mother's distant scolding. Everything curls fuzzily at the corners, conversation seesawing sloppily from football to Asgard Enterprises to Roxanne personally coming to offer him another drink – and Sif's diamond earrings winking in the soft candlelight – and his father's eye patch (he lost one eye long ago, before Thor was born; a strange and heroic tale, of course!) a mysterious shade of black – and Frigga rebuking him in that endearingly fretful way of hers ("Thor, this isn't how a gentleman acts!") – and then Sif saying, her voice a thousand echoes, "I hope you aren't planning on driving home tonight –" and then Thor smashing a finely-sculpted mug on the table, declaring "Another!" at the top of his lungs, and everyone decides to call for the check.

"I'm s-s-sorry," Thor slurs cheerily, brushing at droplets of expensive beer and glass shards, "S – s – sooooo sorry –"

Then Sif's cool, white hand on his wrist, her voice saying, "Really, Thor, you're the most immature person I know –"

– and then his parents, Roxanne, Sif offering to drive him home –

"No, no," Thor stammers, chuckles, happy, drunk, "Please, please! I'm a grown man! I'll get – a hotel – room…"

But everything's spinning now and Thor's still laughing and Sif's face looks like a moon shrouded in a black cloud, peering worriedly over him, and then, "I'll see he gets to the hotel, Mrs. Odinson…" and Thor finds he's laughing, laughing, laughing –

He's not entirely sure what happens after this. He does not remember walking to the hotel, but he recalls a fascinating blur of gold and crystal that must have been spinning doors, and he thinks he remembers Sif and a receptionist with her face caked in clownish makeup and someone asking him for his autograph ("Certainly, certainly!") and then fine Persian hallways that shift from side to side like a stitched sea as the bellhop leads him to his room (When did he say goodbye to Sif?) and then the bellhop's gone and he's fumbling with his key.

And then something happens.

Thor is drunk. When he first pulls the door open, it swings back on oiled hinges, and he notices nothing.

But then the sound comes – a song – insistent under the thunder – trickle, trickle, trickle, the sound of running water. And Thor is drunk, and he's confused, especially when he feels dampness under his feet and sees the bathroom door hanging ajar. And the water looks strange, pinkish, and swirls of red like floating ribbon…and…and…why's the water running? …And why's the sink and the shower on? …And why – _why_ – what – _what_ – _what is going on? _

Thor is drunk and his mind is clumsy. He does not immediately recognize the scenario. Indeed, even if he were sober, he would not recognize it. He has never encountered such a thing before.

But when he stumbles to the bathroom door, he sees someone beautiful, washed in water and blood.

Outside, the thunder either bays or roars – wolves and lions, lions and wolves.

* * *

**ELEANOR IS NOT AN OLD GIRLFRIEND. ROXANNE IS A SECONDARY CHARACTER. THE ONLY REAL PAIRING IN THIS STORY IS THORKI. THERE IS NO REASON TO FEAR THE MINOR OC INCLUSIONS. **

Sorry - felt I should just get that out there! ^^;

**In other news, I apologize for any grammatical errors**. I've been a nervous wreck for the past - well, months - and I finished this at six A.M. where I am. I try to reduce errors, but if they are there, that's why.

**THANKS FOR READING! **


	3. Chapter Two: White

A/N: Hey, everyone! So, I'm honestly not dead. I'm sorry for the long wait! I actually worked on this fairly diligently for me; it's just that I'm such a slow writer – it's painful. But at least its long? It felt almost never-ending to me.

**This chapter's from Thor's P.O.V. The next will be from Loki's. And it'll seesaw between the two of them from now on. **

Not sure how I feel about this chapter. There are bits I like, bits I don't like. I'm finishing it late and I tried to go over it, but I'm disoriented, as usual. Please forgive any typos!

There are quite a few long, rambly-type paragraphs in this chapter. These were done on purpose to reflect a troubled and panicked mind.

This author's note is way too long, so I'm going to stop it here.

* * *

**THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN FOR THE LOVELY COMMENTS AND INTEREST IN THIS STORY. THEY KEEP ME GOING. I LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOU ALL!**

**ABECrudele: **I hope I can eventually live up to your need for chills! The story hasn't reached its horror-mode yet, but it will once the plot thickens. Also – thank you so much! I appreciate the interest. Haha, you'll find out who Eleanor is soon enough. Probably next chapter. It's not a big secret.

**SPIKE: **Oh, wow. I don't deserve such an emotional response. I'M HONORED YOU FELT SO MUCH!

**Wings of Darkness:** Thank you so much! That really means a lot – especially what you said about the descriptions! Lol, I agree, Loki is quite beautiful!

**Soulbook:** Sorry for the mean ending! Luckily, this chapter picks up almost exactly where the last one left off. Thanks for reading!

**Kiri:** Thank you! I know, I feel bad torturing Loki so x_x

**Guest #1:** You are honestly too good to me! Thank you so much!

**Guest #2:** Wow, thanks a lot! I'm sorry the update took so long!

**Suishou Haruka:** Thanks so much! Are you asking how its possible for a hotel to give two different people a card to the same room? I know it's a little unbelievable. I'm asking for _some _benefit of the doubt just to get the story rolling. But still, I attempt to explain how that happened in this chapter. Hopefully it satisfies you!

**Gina:** You loved how I described Loki? /blushes/ Wow, that's high praise! Thanks!

**Guest #3:** And thank you for reading! I'm honored!

**The-Rave-Angel: **Thank you! I hope I do not disappoint!

**Tj:** Wow, you are such a sweet person. Thank you so much for the really touching comment. It means a lot. Don't worry about me – I stress, but I have a lot of support to help me out. xD And thanks so much for your beautiful words about last chapter! I'm honored that you enjoyed it!

* * *

"_Hello,_

_Hello, _

_Hello, _

_Beautiful Stranger. _

_How familiar the danger, _

_Slipping into the _

_Shadows." _

"Beautiful Stranger," _The Devil's Carnival _

**Chapter Two **

**White **

It's the acidic _whiteness_ of the place that really bothers him.

Thor rubs bloodshot eyes, groaning into his palm. He tries to block out the whiteness of the hospital, a searing, soulless hue that burns into his retinas and digs, needlelike, into his aching thoughts. He does not understand how doctors and nurses scurry down such shining halls, breathing in the overpowering antiseptic, the biting ammonia, everything scoured ruthlessly or wrapped in airtight plastic: it's more than cleanliness, it's a sterile hell, a disinfected massacre, killing life along with germs. He does not know how anyone could survive in such manufactured whiteness.

And the artificial blaze of the headlights makes him nauseous.

Oh why, oh why, oh _why _did he drink so much?

The receptionist had handed him the wrong key. It's completely absurd, a ridiculous blunder to make at a five-star hotel – but it happened all the same. Some mishap with the computer, or some sort of negligence on the receptionist's part; Thor had only been half-listening while the woman stammered her explanations. Ultimately, she had thought the room was empty and activated his key (the generic plastic card) to open the stranger's door. The details did not matter much to him. The receptionist had shrieked her apologies, high and birdlike, her words spinning dizzyingly around his alcohol-drenched brain.

Even the manager had come down, bald and uptight, his spectacles catching lamplight and sparking dangerously, screaming admonishments at his employee and simpering pleas for forgiveness to his wealthy customer. Their voices were a hailstorm of panic and hysteria, a mingled mess of excuses – utterly useless. They did nothing to wipe away the blood or the morbidity of the situation. They barely existed to him.

Thor was only aware of the blood and the water and the body on the floor.

It had been the cleaning man who first heard Thor's cries for help. He had been working overtime, and thankfully saw Thor shove open his door and call out hoarsely over the sound of the running showerhead. He was the one who dialed 911; the one who alerted the staff and turned off the water. And it was his voice that roused the sleepers in the other rooms. A sensible black woman from down the hallway knew enough to bind the man's bleeding wrists with cloth (they needed small strips, something she could tie tightly; towels wouldn't do; Thor offered her his undershirt shakily, allowing her to tear it to pieces) until the medics appeared.

Thor had done nothing. He had hovered senseless in the doorway, stumbling and shouting and spouting slurred statements – "What's going on?" "Is he going to be alright?" "What's – what's happening?" "Is this – real? I – I don't know; I'm drunk, I'm _drunk!" – _and watched with overwhelming anxiety as the woman kneeled in the red, as she pressed palms and bandages against the man's wounds. It was all so nightmarish, so unreal, unreal.

He had never felt so pointless, so very _helpless. _

The man and the blood and the water and the whole time Thor did nothing, nothing, nothing – and honestly, what _could _he do?

Thor sighs now, his large shoulders hunched as he leans forward on his elbows. He will never forget that feeling, that detestable helplessness, so foul, so _unlike _him. He feels strangely hollow and strangely restless, as though uncomfortable in his own body: this proud, sculpted, powerful body, and it had stood still as a stone, as meaningless as a rock, unable to do _anything_ as the paramedics laid a long white body in a stretcher…

And tomorrow, perhaps that same cleaner, the very one that called 911, would be scrubbing red out of the bathroom tiles.

_Oh God. _

Why do the lights in this place make Thor so queasy? Why did he drink so much?

The manager had begged him to stay, implored him to take another available room ("Free of charge, of course, sir!"), but Thor could not stay there. Instead he stood shivering in the midnight air as they packed the stranger into a screaming ambulance, his top still carelessly unbuttoned from removing his undershirt. The paramedics crawled around the stretcher, like buzzards on a corpse, attaching what looked like wires and IVs and all sorts of medical equipment that Thor didn't recognize: needles digging into translucent flesh, oxygen masks hooked over bloodless lips.

Dimly, underneath the roaring in his drunk mind, Thor realized he should stay behind and let the vehicle whiz down the electric-bright streets and disappear.

But he could not do this, somehow, he could not, could _not. _Some unexplainable force propelled him forward, into the shifting crowd of medics, his throat raw and fierce as he cried out –

"I found him! Let me come – I found him!"

There was a pandemonium of dissent at these words.

"Sir, I'm going to ask you to step away –"

"I found him!"

"He's in critical condition!"

"Then I _must _come! I found him! I found him!"

"Sir, sir –"

And another voice, "Just let him come, Richard, we don't have time – !"

So Thor clambered into the ambulance after the stretcher, a small, hot, crowded space, his whole body curled in panic or claustrophobia (he could not tell which), jostling down roads blazing with gigantic glowing billboards and sparkling skyscrapers. He did not regret his decision, but the closeness of the environment was stifling, and alcohol and confusion unraveled his vision into blotchy snapshots of light and motion. Sweat was like ice on his fevered skin. Thor had never passed out before, but he had imagined that this was what it would feel like, a vague, sweat-soaked delirium, bordered with a glittering blackness.

His only constant was the face before him, looking barely human behind the oxygen mask, so limp – the face of a stranger, but, oh God, he would never forget that face – beneath all the equipment, it was like a silken mask, so white, so cold, so lifeless – so _striking_, framed in matted black hair. Oh God, oh God, Thor could never forget that face, not for as long as he lived, it had been etched permanently in this thoughts, engraved forever on the inside of his skull; it hung like a phantom before his closed eyes.

And then they were at the hospital, and that face had been rushed away from him.

The rest is unimportant. Someone – he cannot remember who – ushered him into a seat in the hospital lobby and forced a cup of water into his hands.

He stares at this now while he sits; a tiny thing cradled in large, rough palms. It's one of those pathetic paper cups that hold about an inch of lukewarm water, and when you take a sip, it tastes of dust and plastic. Thor stirs the measly puddle of liquid, his jaw wired shut, his stomach like a tight, knotty stone.

He's always disliked water dispensers. The water is never fresh – how can it be when it sits idly in a tank all day? – and athletes need fresh water.

Yes.

Thor thrives on fresh water – he thinks he could drink about a gallon every day, as long as it is clean, and very cold.

Yes.

Clean and cold.

Water.

And it's very good to think about water, it's very soothing. Bad water, fresh water. It's safe, safe, it's comfortable. It's boring. The dullness of it cushions his throbbing brain, wraps around his thoughts like a shroud: water, water, water, and not how the blood must have seeped through the floor and into the very mortar that cements the tiles in place; and how dark the red looked, how vivid in the shadows, like a poison; and how deeply he must have cut for that sea of crimson to spurt – and _why? – _and how small the body was, so thin, a half-curled, white thing, slender and pale and how could so much red pour from such a slight body and what must he have been thinking when he – and _why? – _and his face, still, still, so still in its almost-death and like a mask or something porcelain and Thor will never forget that face and he'll always be wondering how it looked when he – and _why, why, why? – _and is he dead or is he alive and is it too late and could Thor have done something and no, no, he's just a stranger and _oh God, oh God, he did that to himself; why did he do that to himself; who does that to himself? _

No – _no. _The water.

He must focus on the _water. _

Like the water blossoming beneath a bloodless man like some grotesque, pink flower –

Thor crunches the cup in his hand, sloshing droplets all down his fingers. He doesn't notice. And he doesn't think he can stay here, though he knows he must, though he knows he will not be able to sleep until he hears – until he knows –

_is he alive or is he dead and is it too late and could Thor have done something _

And now there's this foreign feeling in his throat, an itch, and he can't breathe properly.

"…yes. I'm Gajra Hansini…I'm here about Loki Laufeyson – he's a client of mine; I just received the phone call…is there any news on him? Yes…thank you…I'll take a seat –"

Thor lifts his gaze to the Indian woman talking to the receptionist. She has a smooth, self-assured voice, and he hopes her conversation will distract him since the cup of water has clearly failed. She's a tall figure with caramel-colored skin and thick, straight black hair, dressed rather professionally for this hour, a large red handbag hanging from her shoulder.

He blinks when she turns on her heel and walks straight toward him.

Normally, Thor smiles at women. But now he only slouches forward, feeling the alcohol ebb out of his system, leaving him raw and low and aching. A dull throb has settled behind his left eye, and Thor expects that sometime tomorrow morning it will feel like a dozen javelins being driven into his skull. But now there's only a muffling exhaustion that weighs on his limbs like lead and a velvety nausea that furs the back of his throat.

The woman chooses the chair directly next to him. Thor wonders, vaguely, whether she knows who he is, whether she will attempt to flirt with him or ask for his autograph, but she only crosses her legs, her expression harried. He feels grateful. Her nails are perfectly painted orange squares on slim brown fingers. They squeeze the bridge of her nose in a tired gesture.

"Oh, God, Loki…" she sighs.

Thor debates over whether he should ask her what has happened or not. She is here alone, but then, so is he.

He does not have to debate long. She turns to him suddenly, her dark eyes reflective and questioning, compassionate.

"Are you quite alright?"

"Uh –?" Thor grunts in response, jerking his gaze in her direction.

The woman smiles. A faded, wraithlike thing. "I asked if you were alright."

"I –" Thor stares down at his hands, nonplussed. She's asking if he's well? He's a grown man and he's _Thor Odinson; _of course, he's well. But when tries to say this, a rush of _oh God he did that to himself; who does that to himself? _burbles to his lips and he has to shut his mouth to keep it from spilling over.

The woman does not appear surprised or offended by his response. Or lack thereof.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask. I suppose it's in my nature – I'm a therapist."

Thor grunts again, bobbing his head. And he's usually so much smoother than this. Not that he cares about that right now. Why is this woman talking to him?

She clears her throat. "It's only…" Her pause seesaws on the air for a minute, before, "– Are you Thor Odinson?"

She's going to ask for his autograph.

Thor takes a breath, wondering how he can phrase 'For-once-I-really-don't-feel-like-signing-anything-because-I'm-exhausted-and-a-little-bothered,' but the woman plunges on, cutting across his thoughts, "Because, if you are, you found my client in your hotel room, and I want to thank you for acting so quickly –"

And he thought she wanted his autograph. Heat smothers his face.

Words feel awkward, heavy in his mouth, and he fumbles with his response. "I…yes, I'm Thor…I…"

Why is he acting like this? Yes, it's horrible, it's terrible, but he has no personal connection to this man.

The woman has a warm, open, though shrewd face. She watches him carefully as she extends her hand.

"I'm Gajra Hansini. The man you found…his name is Loki. He's my patient. I'm – so sorry about this."

"It's not your fault," Thor responds automatically, but some small part of him mutters _Why didn't you prevent this? _

Gajra shakes her head, looking sad, tired, but not at all shocked. A haggard air clings to her, almost as if she expects this sort of thing, even if she laments it; as though it has happened many, many times before. The idea disturbs Thor – it's a shard of ice in his chest.

"Oh, Loki," she breathes softly, "And he told me he felt just fine yesterday. But that's the way he is, of course. He's quite the charismatic liar," she shrugs her shoulders with a mirthless little laugh, "Thank you, again. For…saving him."

This jars Thor. _Saved. _She said _saved. _

"There is no need to thank me," he says heavily, fighting the bitter revulsion that builds up in his throat when he remembers his helplessness, his drunken shouts, "I did not do nearly as much as I should have. I just opened the door and –"

He breaks off, abruptly, but Gajra places a purposeful hand on his arm.

"You shouldn't say that about yourself, Thor. There is only so much a person can do in this sort of situation. There is no point in dwelling on what has happened. You brought him here. You have done what you could. Now you must let go."

Her voice is slow and poised and even, her every word carefully chosen, firmly stated. Thor supposes she speaks to her patients this way. Speaks to Loki Laufeyson this way.

What is this unfamiliar tightness in his throat?

"I…know."

But Gajra does not appear satisfied. She leans forward, her expression full of polite concern; her hair sifting like dark silk over her features.

"Thor Odinson. The great football player – am I right? Is this your first time dealing with something like this?"

The question is so forthright. So pushy. So true.

Thor throws her a disturbed, wild expression. Who is she to ask him this? What _right _does she have? She has confused him with one of her mewling patients, soft, fragile, frightened things, moaning piteously and wringing their hands, bruising easily. But he is Thor Odinson. He's bold, he's fearless, he's _thunder_ personified – he's not going to quail at something as – as – admittedly jarring, but as – well, he's not going to quail at something like_ this_. His bones are made of steel and his soul is the tumultuous eye of a storm; his eyes are burning blue lightning and – he thrives on danger and – even if, truthfully, this is alien to him – and even if _oh God, he did that to himself; who does that to himself? – _but he's _Thor Odinson, _so –

"I don't see why that matters," he mutters.

But Gajra surveys him pressingly. "Why are you getting so upset?"

Were all therapists this annoying?

"I'm not one of your patients," Thor says raggedly, but in his mind there's the bathroom and the blood and the white face, and he's overcome with a sensation like a thousand needles piercing his body. The paper cup (completely mutilated at this point) slips from his sweaty fingers.

Gajra bobs her head in a simple nod.

"Alright," she responds easily, kindly, almost glibly, and Thor gawks. How could such pushiness dissipate so quickly? Truly, therapists are a breed all their own.

He grunts once more and turns away from her. The silence that settles between them is taut and breakable, like an elastic band stretched too far. And it's _loud. _It floods Thor's eardrums with phantom sounds: the wail of the sirens, the confused, hysterical jumble of voices that was the hotel lobby; he hears the screech of tires and the clatter of medical equipment and his own drunken voice, lost, lost, so lost in the chaos – and the faint whisper of water falling in the dark, the incessant drip of the shower and facet, an insidious song, mingling with the blood.

The lights in this place make him ill. The air here is too cold. Thor fidgets, uncomfortable, and wonders how the therapist can remain so still, so motionless, so damnably, utterly _calm. _Her patient is dying. Her patient might already be _dead. _Thor feels something hot and prickly crawling up from the pit of his stomach, forcing its way into his throat. It tastes metallic, like blood – blood in his mouth. Her patient might be dead. He might be dead and Thor was drinking a few hours ago, a few petty hours ago, he was sitting at a sumptuous banquet and laughing and smiling and drinking, and all the while, this person Thor has never met before, has never even _thought_ of before, this poor, haunted stranger that Thor never knew existed, he was sitting in a hotel room and actually thinking about _killing _himself, was thinking about taking a knife and –

"People just don't do things like this," Thor does not want to say it, but the words swell behind his mouth and he can no longer dam them in with clamped lips. His hands clench the arms of his seat, heat bursting along his pores. Once again, he toys with the mortifying possibility that he could pass out – but he's _Thor Odinson, _not some feeble maiden in a black-and-white film, and he's _not _going to slip into a swoon.

Still, everything is hot, hot, hot. And he thought it was cold in here?

"People just don't _do _things like this," he repeats again, more fiercely.

Gajra meets his gaze, patient, unsurprised.

"Do things like what?" she prods gently.

And Thor cannot stop himself, he cannot, cannot, "Things like _this!" _He exclaims in a fit of rage he cannot explain, throwing out an arm in a meaningless gesture, causing a few other late-night hospital goers to jump, "Things like – people don't _try _to kill themselves! It's not natural – it's not _normal," _and Thor realizes the heat is not a symptom of a faint, it's anger, a deep, brooding, intense anger, a fury for this haunted stranger whose so sad and pathetic that he slices himself open in hotel bathrooms, "How could – how could he _want _to die? How could anyone _want _to die?"

"Thor," Gajra says carefully, her voice firm, but soft, "Please sit back down."

Thor blinks and discovers he's on his feet. His lungs feel crushingly close; too shriveled to breathe. But he does not sit.

"You're right, Thor," the woman remarks, faintly, sadly, "It's not normal. But Loki is not a normal person. He needs help."

"And has he _no one _to help him?" Thor thunders, resentment mounting with every word he spits out; anger pours like liquid fire into the hollow cavity in his chest, dispersing the nausea and the tightness and the itch in his throat; it's _familiar _and it's comforting, this anger; it's the opposite of weakness, "Has he no family? No friends? No loved ones? Only _you _are here – and this is your _job." _

His volume does not rattle Gajra. She watches him with a ghost playing across her features.

"No," she breathes, simply, "Loki has no family. He has no friends, no loved ones. He has no one."

Coldness douses Thor's rage. He thinks of the face again, so white behind the oxygen mask, the black hair spilling luxuriously over the deathly pallor. Has no one ever touched that face? It must feel so cold, so cold.

He thinks about the blood. Blood, everywhere.

"I don't understand," he says shortly.

Gajra gestures to his empty seat, "Sit down and I will explain."

Thor collapses and all the fire drains from his body. An iciness creeps up his arms, like damp fingers submerged in a freezing sea, running over his skin. The queasiness is back, a jumpy sickness that makes him lightheaded, nearly blurring his vision.

"You should know I _do _care about Loki," Gajra states, a touch defensively, "Very much so. I'm not counseling him for the money."

He nods, suddenly speechless, humiliated by the way his hands shake.

"But people don't do things like this," he repeats for the third time, only its tired now, ragged.

"Why?" Gajra prompts, and Thor stares at her. She presses forward, "Why do you keep saying that?"

He stares at her, fumbling clumsily for an explanation, "Because–"

Because Thor's life is beautiful. He lives a gilded existence, a fine, wondrous, rollicking life, steeped in success and fortune and admiration, and everyone and everything he encounters is as golden as he. Logically, of course, Thor knows there are people who suffer; he knows there are people burdened with pains and woes and misfortunes – he donates to charities, doesn't he? – but death and illness and agony are nothing but paychecks, something faraway, for faceless people, people he does not know, people he will _never_ know. They are only half-real. They are muted shadows, flitting mildly on the periphery of his glittering life, vague shapes outside his iridescent bubble. They were the stories his mother would preach about when he returned home late from parties, inebriated and wasteful. They were real, but they weren't real. Real life is golden – real life is _good. _

Gajra waits for his response.

"Because – how can he have no one?"

The therapist frowns. "He's an orphan," she explains delicately, "And he has no relatives willing to communicate with him."

"He has no wife? No girlfriend?"

"He has no partner, no."

Thor blinks, momentarily confused, "Partner…?"

Gajra nods, oblivious to the question hanging in his voice, "No partner, no boyfriend."

_Oh. _

_Oh, oh, oh._

Thor feels an unexpected heat seize him. Why should that happen?

He should have recognized that term, anyway. Well, it's late, and he's tired.

"But how –" he splutters, "How can he have made _no_ connections with other people?"

For the first time, Gajra appears a little speechless. She takes a small, hesitant breath, her brown hands crumpled in her lap, then continues,

"Because he…because Loki has gone through many – _many _painful trials. Very early in life. And they have kept him from trusting people," she pauses, grave with unspoken secrets, "And they keep others from wanting to get close to him."

Thor does not understand. Has this man done nothing but wander down haunted, desolate lanes, an island unto himself, invisible to others? Has no one – besides his therapist – ever spoken to him? Has no one ever told him that things could be alright – that they could get better – that _he _could get better?

And what's wrong with him?

What could possibly be so bad –?

"What…happened to him? Did he ever tell you…?" His inquiry is a shadow, a blot on the hospital's tailored whiteness.

Gajra answers almost immediately, her tone clipped and mechanical, "I am not authorized to disclose anything a patient says during our sessions."

Thor recoils from the response, as if bruised, "I did not mean to pry –!"

And Thor's a stranger, anyway – why does he need to know? What does it matter? He's performed his civil duties; he took an ailing man to the hospital. They will probably write this up in the papers tomorrow. The idea clenches Thor's stomach, coats his mouth in a gritty flavor.

But Gajra's smile melts away the tension.

"No, no…it's alright. You're a good person, Thor. This must be shocking for you…" Oh God, there's that tightness in Thor's throat again, that insatiable itch; he wants to tell Gajra to stop talking, but he does not know how, "But that does _not _make you a weak person. You've performed wonderfully today. I'm…I'm sure you've saved Loki's life –" She's sure? She's _sure? _And what if her surety is a falsehood; will he be responsible for Loki's death? "…And the way you're feeling makes you human. Never be ashamed of that. That's what makes you strong."

Oh God, this is slow torture. Thor cranes his head back, staring directly into the electric lights overhead, letting the fluorescence steal over him. There's a burning in his eyes, and Thor realizes, with a humiliating jolt, that it's not from the radiance.

"You don't know me," he mutters, shutting his eyes, mortified. And this isn't happening. Oh God, this isn't happening. He's Thor Odinson, after all. _Thor Odinson. _He _wouldn't – _

Gajra's words swirl over him, inescapable, "I've probably seen more of the real you in this conversation than any one of your fans and teammates."

Thor opens his mouth, wanting to remind her that he's _not _her patient; that she's not even _close _to knowing him; wanting to ask her more – but at that moment, a doctor pushes himself through a pair of nondescript doors and strides toward him, and the rest of the world disappears.

Thor stands up abruptly, his stomach falling away.

"Ms. Hansini?" The doctor, crumpled-looking and exhausted, addresses the woman who stands rigid besides him.

"Yes –?" Gajra's response is a short, brittle breath, snapping off roughly in the air.

Thor cannot see. All his senses have been blinded, clouded, smothered. His entire body writhes in some unexplainable, inexplicable agony.

"We've stabilized him. He's…going to be fine."

"Oh, thank God," the therapist nearly shouts, and her reaction reaches Thor before he registers the doctor's announcement. He senses her hand on his arm, gripping tightly at tendons, and her choky exclamations swarm around him, a dizzying crescendo of relief and joy and tears, and every "Oh, thank God! Thank God! Thank God!" sounds like the drop of a golden pin from faraway, echoing, echoing, until he finally acknowledges what she's saying, what the doctor's saying, and a weightlessness bubbles up from his center to the tips of his fingers.

_It's over. It's finally over. _

There's a wet glimmer over Gajra's eyes, all professionalism lost. "Can I go see him now?"

The doctor nods, gesturing towards the white doors. Thor makes to follow the woman, but a white-clad arm cuts in front of him, blocking his path. Thor blinks confusedly.

"I'm sorry, sir," the doctor states, a little deferentially (he must be a Thunderers fan), but his voice is firm behind his strained expression, "Only family members…er – well, only Ms. Hansini is authorized to see Laufeyson at this moment."

"But I found him!" Thor blusters, as if this will change matters. He doesn't understand why he does not just leave; there's no reason for him to sit down in a hospital room and stare at an unconscious man who slit his wrists and ruined his night in Manhattan – and yet something inside Thor snarls at this injustice, "I was the one who found him!"

The doctor looks stricken, but Gajra simply smiles.

"He won't be awake now, Thor, and you should really get some sleep. Here," she digs her hand in her shiny red bag and pulls out a neat little card, "If you still want to see Loki tomorrow, I can arrange something. Call the second number listed. I'll pick up. Just call before five p.m."

Thor accepts the card wordlessly, an irrational fury still pounding in his temples.

_I found him, _a bitter, exhausted, hung-over voice mumbles in his ear, _And I don't even get to see how he fares? _

There's the click of shoes on linoleum as Gajra heads towards the doors. Towards the stranger.

Towards Loki.

"And Thor."

The therapist's call shatters Thor's thoughts, distracts him from the simmering resentment. When he looks into her dark eyes, they seem almost calculating.

"Try to come tomorrow. I think it would be good for Loki to talk to you."

* * *

_Laufeyson._

It's not until Thor returns to the hotel (against his better judgment; but does he really want to search for another place at this hour?) that he realizes something.

_Laufeyson. _

It's the surname of a criminal, the infamous crime lord who preys on the underground markets of lower Brooklyn. _Laufey_, they call him on the streets. He has not yet been arrested, but Thor's father says he commits sins unspeakable. Trafficking human organs, bottling up children's hearts in jars, hiding them in freezers. Among other things.

His organization is named 'Jotunheim,' and he sits complacently at its center, hiding in its many folds.

He has a bastard son

_(or so they say) _

a baby left abandoned in the snow. _(to die)_

He was found outside with the trash cans.

Thor knows this because everyone knows this. And everyone knows this because it was written in the papers. And it was written in the papers because a long long time ago (or at least it _feels _long ago to Thor – he had only been ten at the time) a group of children from the orphanage his father sponsors was kidnapped and brutalized and murdered. There had been one survivor.

His name was _Loki Laufeyson_.

They wrote about his whole life in the papers.

* * *

The next day Thor calls Sif, but not his parents.

He's aware that this scenario will inevitably be on the news; his name will inevitably be mentioned; and his mother will inevitably see the report and inevitably panic.

But Thor does not think he could speak to her about it now. He can barely talk about it with Sif – the memories and sensations from last night come roiling back to him, weighing heavy and leaden on his tongue, and he has trouble verbalizing them. He tries to blot out the revelation he had back in the hotel room; tries to ignore the morbid connection between the white face behind the oxygen mask and the blurry image of a little boy on a newspaper cover from years ago.

_Why didn't I realize this last night? _

Trials, Gajra had called it. Many painful trials. Very early in life.

She conveniently forgets to mention that these "trials" have been thoroughly dissected in newspaper articles and media.

"Wait, Thor, explain this again – you found him _in your hotel room?" _

Thor tries to clear his thoughts. "Yes. He – he was already in the room when I got there."

Sif is silent on the other end for a moment. "How is that possible? How could _your_ card open _his _door?"

His head aches dully. He does not feel like discussing the mechanics of this.

"The receptionist forgot someone had taken that room, and so she assigned me to the same room number."

"She _forgot?" _

A little needle of pain bursts in Thor's skull.

"Yes, Sif, she forgot – she –" He sighs, running rough fingertips through blonde hair, "Listen, I know it makes no sense. I'm not trying to say it does. But it happened. And the receptionist might have been incompetent, but if she hadn't made that mistake, the man would be dead right now –"

Thor stops speaking, oddly strangled.

A strained silence wedges between them, hard and unyielding as stone.

"I know, Thor," Sif says carefully, "He's very lucky you found him. I'm glad he survived. But are…are you okay?"

Thor does not answer.

"Thor?"

He swallows, angry with himself for being so emotional, angry with Sif for being so perceptive, angry with Loki Laufeyson for being so hurt and ruined and suicidal.

"…I'm fine. Of course, I'm fine. Haven't you ever known me _not _to be fine?"

The effort sounds gaudy and false, even to him. He imagines Sif frowning on the other side.

"Thor…"

He ignores her tone. "Do me a favor, will you, Sif? Call my parents. The press will hear about this eventually and I'd rather them hear about it from you first."

"Why don't _you _call them? They'd rather hear it from _you._"

"I have somewhere I need to be."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm going to see him," Thor retorts, a little more abrasively than he meant, "Laufeyson. I'm going to see him today. In the hospital."

He expects Sif to argue with him. He expects her to tell him that he's done a good deed and Laufeyson's alive because of him and he should be relieved but now his part's finished and Loki Laufeyson is _not_ – has never been – his responsibility.

She doesn't.

"Alright," she says, "I understand. Just be careful about what you say. They'll be reporters all over the place."

Her prediction is right, of course.

Thor exits the hotel only to be assaulted by throngs of reporters, all writhing for a statement, a sea of microphones jutting in his direction, shrieks and calls and questions battering him left and right. How could the media discover this so quickly? Not only the reporters, but a substantial crowd of bystanders linger around the streets, eying the bustle with curious eyes. Thor feels sick. Normally, he thrives on the bustle and hype, smiling broadly at cameras, waving at strangers; but now it's a nuisance and a curse, crushing him from all sides, a hungry mob clamoring for horror stories. How could people be _this _excited about something _this _horrible?

"Odinson, is it true –!"

"Did you really find the Warehouse Kid–?"

"Mr. Odinson, are you aware that Laufeyson attended the orphanage that your father –?"

Thor shoves past hives of churning bodies and microphones, his hangover – or is it lack of sleep? – pounding in his temples, irritation clawing up his back as the voices surge forward. It's never been very difficult to spark his temper, and Thor has to rein in the flames lapping at his insides now. These people are not roaring in celebration or chanting their admirations to his success; they're gasping and screaming in ecstasy over a broken man's attempted suicide and a rich man's coincidental discovery. He needs to remind himself that these reporters are not the thickset opponents he bulldozes on football fields, and if he strikes one of them, no matter how deserving, he'll be met with shame rather than applause. He needs to ignore them. Ignore, ignore, ignore, but they pour in from all sides, like an infestation, like a plague. Thor's always criticized celebrities who moan about their publicity, but pushing his way through this crowd, with thorny, heartless questions hurled at him, he cannot help but agree. The paparazzi are full of piranhas.

"I'm not answering any questions," Thor growls as a woman shouts an inquiry in his ear, "I told you, I'm _NOT _answering any questions!"

Some have the audacity to follow him into the parking lot (he had the restaurant's lot attendant move his car to the hotel's space last night), and they don't quit until he shuts his car door and effectively shuts them out.

The reporters infuriate Thor enough to distract him from his current situation. He backs his Mercedes messily into the streets, too blinded by rage to glance at his rearview mirror; he swerves recklessly around corners, cutting off traffic, cursing at the chorus of horns that blare in response. He grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white; brilliant, furious stars burst behind his vision, clouding his mind in an angry smoke; he imagines breaking every microphone with his bare hands; imagines shocked reporters and stricken bystanders scattering at the force of his ire…

Overhead thunder rumbles.

Thor breathes deeply and eases his foot off the accelerator. He's almost at the hospital and he does not want his mood to blacken an already tentative encounter. The man is sick and recovering, anyway. He does not need the added stress.

But as the hospital looms closer, cold, vast, impersonal, a granite fortress, Thor feels another emotion replace his resentment: apprehension. It starts as a queasiness in the pit of his stomach, but works its way into his hands as he jerkily parks the car, a dozen needles jiving into sweaty palms. The building feels almost alive to him: he thinks it watches him as he steps out of the driver's seat, its dull windows like the many eyes of some unsleeping giant, staring with a slow, predatory gaze.

He does not have to do this. It's not like he _owes _Laufeyson anything. He could head home right now – he could sleep in his own bed, recline in his own chairs, watch some of his old games – and forget about this. Forget about the blood and the face and the name. Laufeyson, the suicidal son of a crime lord. Found outside with the trash and the snow. Maybe somebody owes him something, but it's not Thor. It's not Thor's fault that he's suicidal. It's not Thor's fault that life has been unfair to him. Loki, Laufey's son. Thor does not owe him anything. He owes him nothing. Nothing, nothing.

The air in the hospital lobby still smells of antiseptic.

Thor chokes on it, gritting his teeth as he makes his way to the receptionist. He means to ask the man where Loki's room is located, but a voice jolts him from his task.

"Thor! Over here!"

He turns in time to see Gajra striding toward him. As she instructed, Thor had called her earlier today, confirming that he still wanted to visit her client. She had been as erratic and touchy on the phone as she was in person: sometimes stern and professional, other times gushing and sympathetic. Honestly, Thor cannot say he likes the woman. He knows her intentions are pure, but he has never met someone so incredibly pushy, so determined to coerce perfect strangers into admitting things they don't want to talk about.

Then again, she's a therapist. Thor supposes therapists are meant to be pushy about delicate subjects, and Loki, who's clearly very troubled, would need an exceptionally nervy therapist.

She passes a few hurried statements to the receptionist and taps Thor's shoulder, almost businesslike.

"This way."

Thor's heart thumps faster as they crowd onto the elevator – a close, cramped space that reminds him of the ambulance. Why should he feel this way? Laufeyson is just a man, just a man.

_Ding, ding, ding, _they keep going up floors.

Gajra is saying something, but Thor does not hear her. He does not want to hear her. The elevator is hot, swelteringly hot, and it keeps speeding upwards. He pictures that crinkled newspaper with the bulky header – MUTILATED BOY DISCOVERED HIDING IN THE CARNAGE OF FELLOW ORPHANS – his father's paper, the one he wasn't supposed to look at, but Fandral had _dared_ him, and most of the words were too big to understand anyway. A little pain prickles through Thor's chest at the memory. Well, he was a child; it's not his fault; he hadn't understood the gravity of the situation; he only knew that adults kept whispering about it and would stop abruptly whenever he entered the room…

_Ding, ding, ding, _they're going up to the psych ward.

Odin had looked so tired during the whole ordeal; Thor remembered that. Children from The Asgard Orphanage (the orphanage _he _funds), kidnapped. Killed. His face old and craggy and his mouth full of sighs and regret. Furious when he found Thor and his friends peering at the forbidden paper, the article he wasn't allowed to read. "This is not a game!" Odin kept shouting, while Thor scowled and muttered his excuses, "This is _not _something you turn into a dare!" And then Frigga, perched on the edge of his bed, smoothing back his hair, telling him with sad eyes that sometimes bad things happen to people who don't deserve it, but don't worry, because Mama would protect him and nothing like that will ever happen to him –

And Gajra's still saying something.

_Ding. _

They're here.

All Thor's insides seem to disintegrate. He has to remind himself that he's two – maybe three – times bigger than Laufeyson and thus there's no reason for the panic blossoming in his gut. He should be ashamed of it, really. He's Thor. Thor Odinson. _Thor Odinson. _

The corridors are all white and symmetrical and they make Thor nauseous.

Gajra stops abruptly and, before Thor has time to collect himself – in fact, before he has time to take a breath – she's shoving him into a room.

There are no cards. It's the first thing Thor notices. There are no cards, no flowers. The place is scathingly, depressingly bare.

A man lays propped up on pillows, pale and somber, the IV trailing down to his wrist like a long, twisting red ribbon. Everything is very still. Thor cannot see his face from his position in the doorway and the stranger does not turn to look at him. Outside lightning flashes, brief and violent.

"Gajra," Laufeyson speaks, and Thor feels an electric shock jolt his entire body; he had not expected his voice to sound like that, soft, so soft, but poised and elegant and almost bored, full of dreary, cultured apathy. "I told you I don't want to talk. Please leave." His voice, his presence, leaves a shadow on the air, like a ghost, something once fine but now faded, barely there, still lingering.

Thor says nothing.

The therapist steps neatly into the room.

"Loki," she retorts gently, "Someone's here to see you."

And she nudges Thor further into the room.

Pushy, Thor thinks. Way, _way_ too pushy.

The news seems to startle the man. He stiffens, and then turns in one languid, tired, fluid motion, his breath hissing through clenched teeth in a way that sounds painful but somehow still composed. And then he's facing Thor.

_He's beautiful. _

It's the first thing Thor's mind – wild, erratic, thoughtless – blurts out, and it makes him feel crushingly hot and profoundly uncomfortable. He has never thought of a man this way before.

But Loki Laufeyson _is _beautiful.

It's not the plasticized beauty that the media churns out, but something entirely different, an ethereal fairness. Even beneath the pallor of sickness, a natural luster gleams in his white skin, a paleness and a coldness that whispers of snow and ice and silver moonlight. The contours of his face are delicate, yet sharp, as if sculpted from glass; the arch of his cheekbones graceful, the curve of his chin elegant and small – he's altogether _slight, _the outline of his waist and torso quite slender beneath his bed sheets. And his hair is dark, blacker than midnight, an inky flow that spills around his neck; and the eyes a vivid, startling, almost disconcerting green, the type that cut right through you, that visits you in both your dreams and nightmares. There's something irrevocably _dark _and unmistakably _haunting _about the man before him, a sort of beauty that exists only in the shadows; a hidden rose that blooms only for a solitary midnight. Yes, it's a strange loveliness, striking, and yet somehow dangerous, as though – as though if you were to reach out and touch him – your fingers would come away bleeding – as though you would cut yourself on that knifelike, forbidden brilliance – cold, cold, unattainable beauty, left frozen in dead gardens or abandoned churches or old cemeteries.

Thor cannot speak, arrested by a thousand bizarre and foreign sensations.

"Who are you?" Loki asks; his voice tempered lightly with poison, "Why are you here?"

Why _indeed. _Thor doesn't know, he really doesn't, and he's beginning to feel humiliated with himself again – another sensation he's not familiar with. He's Thor Odinsonand he's always been quite proud and sure of who he is. He's _not _like this – and anyway, it's just altogether _strange – _these first impressions – what's _wrong_ with him…?

Loki clearly thinks there's something wrong with him (which is ironic, Thor thinks – _he's _the one who tried to kill himself last night, after all). He narrows his jade eyes skeptically.

"Why did you bring him here?" Loki directs at Gajra, accusingly.

The inquiry startles Thor from his befuddled silence.

"She didn't bring me," he blunders forward, "I wanted to come see you. I…found you. After you…I mean…" Thor's voice drifts away, unsure (so unlike him), "I found you and I brought you here."

Does that make any sense?

But Loki must understand. His face closes up, like a statute.

"Out," he hisses, faintly, through his teeth, struggling to push himself up from the mattress. He blanches from the effort, but continues relentlessly, tugging at the IV when his movements rattle its stand, making to pull the needle out of his wrist, "Out – out – _out."_

Gajra rushes towards him, her mouth very tight, "Loki, calm down – _don't _do that –"

Thor does not know what he expected, but Laufeyson's words hit him squarely in the chest, like little pebbles drilling through skin and bone and muscle. He does not have to be here. He does not particularly _want _to be here. And yet, here he is, in this ugly place, this sterile white room, unadorned with flowers or get well cards or _anything_ that might suggest that someone outside this building actually cares about the man now struggling to leave his bed. That his resuscitation is more than just protocol.

Thor remembers a time, years ago, when he was a little boy – his tonsils had been removed, and for the one night he spent in the hospital, he had been showered in mountains of toys for weeks. It has nothing to do with the present situation, but something like guilt and pity rushes into his mouth and he nearly chokes on it.

And he can't bring himself to leave. The man might hurt himself.

"Please, don't get up. You're still too weak –"

Laufeyson swivels acid eyes on him, his voice ragged, "Still too _weak_?"

Thor doesn't understand why he should be offended. "You lost a lot of blood."

Sweat glitters on the man's brow. He collapses back against his pillows, white and shaking, his black hair skimming his chin as he stares at his hands.

"Get out," he says again, his voice commanding. Where does he get off sounding like that?

"Loki –" Gajra begins in what's probably her most patient tone, but Thor strides forward, cutting her off.

"I want to speak to you."

A soft laugh escapes the man's mouth, a poisonous thing, "What could you _possibly_ want to talk about with me?"

What does Thor want to talk about?

He glances at Gajra, but for once she's silent, still and watchful. Thor clears his throat awkwardly, dragging a hand through his blonde hair, feeling knots and tangles. He had been too distracted this morning to give it much attention. He had practically raced here, and now he's not sure what to say.

Besides, standing this close to the man is somehow distracting.

"I –" And _oh God, you did that to yourself; why did you do that? why would you possibly do that?_ teeters on his lips, but he swallows it back, hot and uncomfortable, knowing he can't mention it, and instead bumbles, "I…paid for your hotel room –" Which he _had, _but that isn't what Thor meant to say, not at all.

When Laufeyson laughs, it sounds cruel and quiet and bitter, a breathy sound sifting through bloodless lips. He leans his head back against his pillows, opting to stare at the graying ceiling rather than Thor's face, exposing a slender and creamy white neck. Thor wishes he wouldn't do that.

"Charming," he responds drily, "How fortunate am I to have come across such a _thoughtful_ and _understanding_ prince."

A rush of annoyance prickles underneath Thor's skin. How can a suicidal man be so biting – so infuriating? He realizes he said the wrong thing, but he only blurted it out of nerves; Laufeyson must know how awkward this situation is. He's not exactly easing the tension.

But the phantom of yesterday swarms over him, the blood and the ambulance and the limp figure cradled in his own blood, and guilt clots out his irritation.

"I…didn't mean it that way," he starts up defensively, wishing Gajra would say something; she did not quit speaking yesterday; but now she might as well be a effigy, she's so wordless, "I just meant –" _I don't want you to worry about it? I don't want you to have to confront the manager about it? I just wanted to tell you? I just wanted an excuse to talk to you? _"Listen, I just…I just needed to talk to you."

Laufeyson continues to stare at the ceiling.

"I suppose I ruined what could have been a fabulous night for you," he sneers quietly.

Thor's face reddens in frustration, embarrassment, "Don't pretend you know me, Laufeyson –"

The man turns sharply at the exclamation, hoisting himself up on his elbows, his hair spilling in slippery, night-colored strands all around a porcelain-pale face. He looks thin and ravaged and tortured and livid.

"Oh, but you know me, don't you?" He murmurs, and his voice is faint, faint, a wisp on the air, each word a measured breath, slowly and carefully enunciated, filling Thor with a vague and unexplainable dread, "You know all about Loki Laufeyson," And the stranger's eyes are a fathomless green, ringed in raven lashes, "You read an article in the papers from years ago and now you know _everything_," Emotion momentarily corrodes the coolness in his voice, the single word scraping raggedly at his throat; he pauses, composes himself, but his face appears dangerous and breakable; a smile stretches taut and false over his mouth, " – Everything you could _ever_ crave to hear about Laufey's bastard son."

Thor cannot speak. Images swirl through his clouded mind, unbidden: the newspaper curled up on the sitting room table, seemingly innocent under a vase of drooping marigolds; the gigantic words printed across the surface, in screaming capitals; MUTILATED BOY DISCOVERED HIDING IN THE CARNAGE OF FELLOW ORPHANS; and Volstagg squinting at the words, trying to puzzle out its meaning, and Sif's little face looking grave and somber; and the blurry photo of a hunched thing surrounded by black-clad officers that was apparently a boy and the boy was apparently _their age _(well, that's what Fandral said, and he could've been lying); and then Father, towering over them, tall and lined and imposing, looking old, so old, and tired, _furious – _

His stomach hardens in some indescribable, unpleasant feeling. But it's not his fault. He didn't know. He didn't know and he didn't understand and he was just a little kid.

"Don't worry," Frigga had told him, spreading her hands lovingly over his comforter, while he pretended to not be afraid, "Your father and I would never let anything like that happen to you…"

But he didn't _ask _to have a better life than Laufeyson.

The tension stirs Gajra from her silence. Her eyes are sympathetic and unafraid and Thor wonders again how she can be so damnably calm.

"Thor has not said one word about Laufey or the kidnapping, Loki," she explains simply.

The statement stains the air. Laufeyson does not even look at her; his gaze burns into Thor's face, and he looks like a haunted relic, cold and beautiful and forgotten.

"I never did," Thor supplies, a little defensively.

Laufeyson's mouth tightens, his voice low and venomous, "But that's why you're here. You think I don't know you? Odinson, the glorious football star. Your face plastered everywhere. I know you as well as you know me. And you're a drunkard – you're spoiled – _arrogant_. This is a publicity stunt for you; a way to win over crowds; make them _love _you. I can see the headlines now. 'Odinson, the oh so merciful hero, bestows _pity _upon – '"

"Loki!" Gajra shouts, but this is all too much for Thor. What's he doing here anyway? He has no desire to be here, trapped in this hateful place, where the white walls crowd in like claustrophobia and the searing flavor of antiseptic numbs his tongue. He has no responsibility to this place, no duty to this man – he owes him nothing, _nothing – this man – _this _pitiable_, this _pathetic_ –

He slits his wrists in a hotel bathroom and he has the nerve to ridicule _him? Thor Odinson? _And after –

Indignation roils in his mind like smoke, obscuring his thoughts; he steps still closer to the man, resisting the urge to grab his collar in anger,

"I just saved your _LIFE!" _

Lightning blazes against the windowpanes, shocking the entire room in an electric glare. Thunder booms and Thor feels it growl in his chest, in his center, and it's the sound of his fury, unbridled and uncontrolled, a lightless, thoughtless emotion.

But Laufeyson cuts in cleanly, "No one asked you to."

The statement chills his fury into a frostbitten fatigue. He cannot understand, he cannot, cannot. The stranger watches him, his gaze dull and cold and lifeless, like bits of jade kept in dirt. Thor suddenly feels very lost and very tired; he has nothing more to say and he does not want to be here. Why did he come at all?

Gajra tells Loki she will be back in a moment and clasps Thor's elbow, leading him back into the hallway.

"That went well," she says evenly, resting her narrow shoulders against the outside wall, and Thor glares at her.

"There's no reason for the sarcasm; I don't know why I even bothered –"

But the therapist holds up her hand, her expression benign, "No, Thor, I mean it. Did you think it would be easy talking to him?" She raises a pitying brow at his baffled expression, "Loki's rarely agreeable, even when he's not in a vulnerable position. He's a little overwhelmed right now. He…" She pauses for a moment, then plunges on truthfully, "He didn't expect to be alive today. I knew he wouldn't take kindly to seeing you, but it was good for him."

Therapists truly are a breed all their own.

"Why is that?"

Gajra's smile is a warm enigma, "Because now he knows his actions have an impact on other people, even if he won't admit it."

Thor grunts. "He didn't seem to care very much."

"Oh," Gajra shakes his head, waving her hand dismissively, "I'm sure it did. Loki's very good at acting one way when he feels something entirely different. It's how he always breezes through rehab."

Thor's head pulses. Rehab. Suicide. Therapists. He's stumbled into unwelcome territory, a dizzying, convoluted maze of hardships and terrors and bitter disappointments. He wants nothing more than to return to his life of golden light and carefree comforts.

And yet his mouth says, "What will happen to him?"

Gajra purses her lips, as if surprised, studying him a bit before she responds.

"He'll need to go to rehab for a while. And when he gets out…" She shrugs her shoulders, a lackadaisical gesture for such a grave topic, "He'll go on with his life. I'll still be talking to him. We'll try coping mechanisms. See if we can get him to move on. That sort of thing."

"You talk like you've both done this before."

Sadness settles over Gajra like a veil, "More times than I care to admit," she states, and Thor feels a little weight drop even deeper into his gut. So Laufeyson has done this sort of thing before. He can't imagine how things could possibly get any worse.

"I – I _am_ sorry," he retorts clumsily, "I truly am."

The woman touches his shoulder. "I know you are. But now you, like Loki, must learn to let go. You've done your good deed. Now go out and live your life."

Although her words are heavy with meaning, her departure is abrupt: she turns smoothly on her heel and enters the unbearable room, leaving Thor to stand muddled and frustrated in her wake. He knows she's right; knows he should go; knows he _wants _to go. Badly. And yet he remains there for a few more minutes, even though Gajra closes the door gently as she steps over the threshold. He listens to their muffled voices rising and falling in conversation, and he thinks he can distinguish which one belongs to Laufeyson, a sharp, clear sound, like a silver melody, like a dagger. He feels drained and unlike himself.

Outside, rain pitters softly.

The memory of that voice and green eyes cling to him like a shroud as he exits the building.

* * *

**LIKE ELEANOR AND ROXANNE, GAJRA IS NO ONE'S POTENTIAL LOVE INTEREST.** She's a recurring character, mostly because she serves as a plot device for later chapters, but she's not a major, major character, and she's not going to steal anyone's heart or be housing the Tesserect or anything of the sort.

Since this world is an AU, I need to populate it with surrounding, minor characters to make it feel believable. Even if they're OCs. That's why people like Roxanne and Gajra show up.

Thanks once again for reading!


	4. Chapter Three: Ghost

A/N: Wah. As usual, late update. Sorry guys. I hate being a such a slow writer and making you wait so long – I honestly do work on these chapters consistently – it's just that it happens at about the same rate as grass growing.

More importantly –

Every Loki chapter (which will be every other chapter; the point of view will switch between Loki and Thor) will begin with a flashback. **Because they are flashbacks, they are purposely written in the past tense.**

Otherwise: **The way I describe Brooklyn below is fictional. **I live in NY, and I realize I've painted a very hyperbolic image. When I say this story is an AU, I don't only mean it's an alternative universe from the "canon" storyline (ie: the Marvel Studios Thor movie) – but alternate from our realities as well. I'm picturing that this AU-New York fairly grim, mostly because it's a grim story, and I've been watching too much Batman. Gotham's starting to get to me.

* * *

ONCE AGAIN, THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU BEAUTIFUL COMMENTS. I ABSOLUTELY CAN'T BELIEVE THERE ARE SO MANY WONDERFUL PEOPLE WILLING TO REVIEW. YOU PEOPLE MAKE MY LIFE.

Unfortunately, I don't have time to give individual reviews right now – it's really late – but I'll give personal responses either tomorrow or over the weekend. For now, all I can say is THANKS.

As usual, please forgive any errors. I read it over, but as always, it's late here.

* * *

"_You're in the Devil's –_

_Carnival! _

_Come one, come two, come all, _

_Devil's Carnival!" _

"The Devil's Carnival," _The Devil's Carnival _

**Chapter Three**

**Ghost **

Her last words spoken, before she dropped dead on the floors of Niffleheim Asylum:

"I thought he'd be a stillborn."

Loki had no other stories about his mother.

Not that there was much more to tell. He knew she'd been wretched, and bleeding, and skulking about the streets barefoot and raving before the authorities found her. The boy supposed she looked like all the other drifters in Brooklyn – dazed and too young and haggard, wrapped up in rags and long wisps of hair, picking her way through an urban wasteland. Life here was swift and violent. Gray hairs and lined faces were signs of a premature stress rather than crowns of renowned old age. This city was a place crawling with tramps and thieves, worthless souls who clung to alleyways and oozed up from the gutters like mold, and Loki had no reason to believe his mother had been any different. She was just as ruined, just as cold and broken and pathetic; one little gray blot in a sea of sallow faces. It would only be her connections that marked her; that branded her as exceptionally lowly amid a cesspit of delinquency.

Connections that scarred Loki like a birthmark.

Anyway, she was towed to a home for the poor and the mad and the unwanted the very day they found her; it was in those dank halls that she admitted to leaving a baby out in the snow with the trash bins; that she confessed to her relations with Laufey and the infant's cursed heritage; and it was there that she promptly died. From hemorrhaging or alcohol poisoning or infection or drug overdose, Loki didn't know. Nor did he ask. It wasn't like knowing would change anything, and honestly, he doubted anyone would take the time to tell him even if he _wanted_ to know.

No. The important thing wasn't the cause of death, but the words she had said. Those words he overhead his foster parent whisper into the phone, once, when she thought no one was listening. His mother's words, her dying breath. _I thought he'd be a stillborn. _

It was how Loki knew he'd disappointed someone even before he was born.

Being born alive was just one in a long string of disappointments Loki Laufeyson had committed. Seven-years-old and he'd already been shuffled through three foster homes; the adults had already declared he was "strange and quiet and pensive," and not to mention, "entirely too smart for his age" and "a dirty, wicked liar" to boot – and even _Loki _noticed that he didn't grow like the other boys, that he was altogether too small and too pinched and too sickly to be truly _wanted _by anyone. He was a bizarre and unlikable sort of child, bony and narrow, full of sharp edges. His heritage made him, at best, worthless, and at worst, repugnant. Foster parents and social workers shoved him from place to place like he was a sleeping bomb, an unavoidable danger meant to be handled roughly and thrown away quickly. Always just about to explode.

Loki came with a shadow, a whisper: a host of horrible inquiries – what if Laufey decided he wanted his son back? What if the crime lord saw someone taking in the child he discarded as an act of defiance – or a form of offense? What if, despite being disowned, Loki's blood somehow still tethered foster families and social workers and fellow orphans to Jotunheim? Laufey was the ghoul lurking behind the little boy's back, dangling claws and teeth, always half-there, lingering in the periphery, but invisible to a direct gaze. He was a bloodstain Loki could never scrub out.

But those inquiries were foolish ones. Loki knew perfectly well that his father did not care enough to either want him or feel challenged or offended by whatever another person did with him. The child was less than dead to the elder Laufeyson; he might as well not exist.

The little boy wished grown-ups would realize that. It would make things a whole lot easier. For everyone.

Unfortunately, Loki would have to put up with the idiocy and skittishness of the adults law dictated take care of him for now. He knew he'd be free eventually, but eighteen felt like a very long way off, and although the toddler considered himself to be a fairly patient person, he didn't think he could be _that _patient.

And there were other things that made him wish he was already eighteen.

Loki curled further into his corner, his eyes fixed on the pages of his book. He could hear the thump of children's footsteps in the hallway, their high, pitchy laughter rising to an earsplitting crescendo as they drew nearer. Ms. Spynes, his current caretaker, hoarded orphans the way other old ladies hoarded cats. When she agreed to open her home to foster care, she refused to take in any less than three children at a time; the shanty old building was consequentially filled with the hungry mouths and sunken eyes and greedy, stretching hands of kids no one else wanted. Loki sometimes wondered if this sort of thing would be allowed in more upscale neighborhoods, but he supposed there wouldn't be so many abandoned children on wealthy streets. In the rot of lower Brooklyn, there was always a screaming infant or scabby-kneed youth wading through the muck and not nearly enough hearts to bleed for them. Child Services existed as a necessity, a lawful requirement, but it performed its duties mechanically and often carelessly, frustrated with its endless burdens. Authorities didn't care how crowded Ms. Spynes' home was as long as social workers had a place to drop off their cargo.

Not that Ms. Spynes had wanted _him. _The social workers had wheedled her into it (as Ms. Spynes reminded him about three times a day) – which probably made Loki the most unwanted of all undesirable children.

Loki didn't care much. Really, he didn't. He'd be eighteen eventually and until then he had books to keep him company and honestly, it didn't bother him. Not much. Or at all.

_Really. _

But Rodney bothered him. Loki gritted his teeth as his fellow orphans pounded into the room, all hooting and shrieking and roaring like a pack of wild animals. He hunched further over his paperback, willing himself to stay small and invisible, to go unnoticed. It wasn't that Loki wanted to cower – he knew how to make words _hurt, _after all – it was only that Rodney was the shape and size and strength of an overlarge bulldog and Loki was like a scarecrow stitched with muscle instead of thread. Sure, he could say some pretty mean things, maybe even manipulate the dunce out of a beating if he got him to listen, but that didn't change the fact that Rodney was still a lot bigger than him. And his punches hurt.

"Hey, Laufeyson."

Loki gripped his book tighter, his vision blurring on the words. _Go away, go away, go away. _

"I heard Martha talking…wanna know what she was saying?"

Martha. That was what everyone called Ms. Spynes. Everyone except Loki. Ms. Spynes hated Loki and Loki hated Ms. Spynes and he saw no reason to refer to her so familiarly when he'd be leaving in a few months anyway.

Loki flicked a page of his book. It was safer not to answer.

"Huh? Hey! Laufey! Don'cha wanna _know?" _

Not really. But at that moment the book was ripped from his hands, its flimsy leaves shredding as they were jerked from the little boy's grip. Loki let out a gasp and a yelp (though, in his defense, it was a very _dignified_ yelp for a seven-year-old), drawing himself moodily into his corner. His jade eyes had a taut look to them.

"That's _my_ book, Rodney," he said with as much conviction as he could muster, forcing his pointy chin up high in the air. He tried to ignore the ache of imaginary bruises already stinging along his arms; phantom feelings that might soon be real, "And –" The boy teetered on a breath's hesitation, "And…don't call me that," he added, though his voice lowered considerably, and he was ashamed of the little catch in his throat. It was bad enough that he was small and weak and twiggy-looking – did he have to _sound _it too?

Rodney grinned broadly, fat lips sweeping back to reveal the ugly gap in his teeth. He'd told Ms. Spynes he'd lost a baby tooth, but Loki knew what really happened – an older kid hit him when he got too cheeky. Loki liked to imagine it: big, blubbering, oafish Rodney, staggering around on his hammy feet, _wailing_, his piggy hands scrabbling over a bloody mouth. How Loki wished he could have been there to see that. Even the _idea _of it cut a thorny smile into the boy's mouth. There were rumors that Rodney sobbed and bled for hours.

_Serves him right, _Loki thought now, waspishly.

After the incident, however, Rodney resumed older, safer habits – namely, beating on Loki instead.

"Huh? What's that you said, _Laufey?" _The boy crooned, his little crop of curls jiggling as he cupped a hand behind his ear, "You want your _book _back?"

Rodney might be two years older than Loki, but that didn't mean he was smart enough to come up with new taunts. The toddler had heard the 'Laufey' remark so many times it was almost archaic. He didn't know why it still bothered him so much. It was just a _word. _Loki used words as ammunition all the time.

Still, the hurt hung like a stain between them, chipping away at his resolve to fight back.

Rodney's smile widened at Loki's silence. "What's wrong, Laufey? Don't got nuthin' to say? That ain't like you – you're always yakking about _something –"_

"I don't _have anything _to say," Loki plucked up, his face reddening slightly at the third use of the nickname, "Not I don't 'got nothing' to say. You'd think a nine-year-old wouldn't be such a dummy," he sneered the criticism before hurrying on, "And you told me that _you _had something to say. How can I answer when you haven't even told me what it is yet?"

But he did know what it was. You didn't have to overhear Ms. Spynes' conversation to know. It was all over the newspapers.

The curious thing about being the disowned son of a crime lord – you heard all about your father, in articles and columns and special news reports, even if he never made one appearance in your life.

Rodney scowled, his pudgy face screwing up in a dangerous manner. By all rights, he should be half-starved, like every other orphan here, but his naturally immense frame made him strong enough to bully the other kids into giving him their dinner portions. Of course, Loki never gave his willingly, but he usually ended up sporting a bloody nose and an empty plate anyway.

"That's it, kid, you're dead meat," he snarled, dropping Loki's book as he flung out a fist to collide with his jaw. Loki squirmed to the side, just missing the blow, scrabbling to retrieve his possession, but Rodney caught his arm before he could move. "You think you're so smart, huh, _Laufey?" _His hand twisted at the little boy's arm, causing hot pain to lance up his wrist, "Just 'cause ya _read_ and use _big words. _But your bad-guy-daddy didn't want 'cha – know that? He didn't even wanna train you to become a big-shot bad guy like _him." _

Jenna – one of the orphans who tagged behind Rodney – let out a shrill snigger at this.

"Loki's daddy left him out with the trash!" she screeched.

Another childish bout of laughter followed this. Then another person, Loki couldn't see who, shrieked,

"Loki's mommy thought he'd be a dead baby!"

"Wish he was!"

"Wish he was!"

Ha ha! Ha ha! _Ha ha! _

_Stillborn, _Loki thought, the pain and the anger and the humiliation like ashes in his mouth, _You mean a stillborn. _Because Loki knew that word; he knew what a stillborn was; seven-years-old and he knew because it was his only story about his mother.

The agony in his wrist blazed with the intensity of white-hot lava. But it was nothing, nothing, compared to the wet, throaty snorts and despicable truths that poured in from all sides, riddled with a pugnacious pleasure, wretched things spit out from the cruel mouths of children. Loki wriggled against Rodney's grip, wriggled against the orphans' laughter, wriggled against his birth and his father and his mother and his reality, but he could not escape the unbearable present. It closed in on him like a cage.

"You – _your _daddy didn't want _you _either," He hissed at Rodney, though the bully's clutch was as tight as ever, and the other orphans were crowding in, crowing, and their closeness suffocated him, "Did you forget you're an orphan too?"

Rodney shoved him against a wall. The motion dislodged a spiderweb, somewhere way above, and Loki felt the itchiness of insect legs on his skin as a spider tumbled onto his neck.

"My daddy's dead!" Rodney roared, though, honestly, he couldn't know that. Except for Loki, none of the orphans really knew what happened to their parents. The files were all muddled and confused and identical: _teenage pregnancy, drug overdose, killed by Jotunheim… _Brooklyn didn't care enough to give a name to every dead one of these fates could have befallen their parents, and any number of reasons existed for why they were now feeding off foster care.

But Rodney seemed pretty convinced. "I'm not like _you, _Laufeyson! If my parents were alive, they'd want me!"

"Doubt it," Loki choked, and oh, he shouldn't have said it, but the words lashed out of his mouth like angry vipers before he could stop them, "Who'd want a stupid, ugly kid like you?"

And then there was pain. And stars. And the taste of salt and copper on his tongue.

"You wanna know what Martha said, Laufey?"

"_Don't call me…!" _

"You wanna _hear?" _Rodney breathed, his chest heaving with the ridiculous exertion of his fury, "She was talking on the phone and I heard her say that _your daddy_ went out and shot a bunch of people and _cut_ them all _open!_ Martha said the police found their bodies on the street! They didn't have any hearts or livers or _leens –!"_

Spleens, he probably meant.

Rodney crushed Loki's cheek further into the wall.

"What kinda freak does that, huh? What kinda freak? Your dad's weird and gross and evil and so are you, Loki! You're as weird and gross and _evil _as he is!"

"Loki's a freak!" another boy tittered.

Jenna shrilled, "Maybe Laufey will come in the middle of the night and cut open _Loki!"_

"And then maybe he'll hide his heart in the freezer!"

"Wish he would!"

"Wish he would!"

Ha ha! Ha ha! _Ha ha! _

He imagined the world falling away. Just a black void, lightless, sightless, airless, a meaningless vacuum where no one and nothing existed, nothing at all, nothing, nothing, nothing. He'd float adrift on inky shades of nothingness until it consumed him and then he'd breathe in the blackness and he'd be nothing too and so would everyone else and then no one would hurt him. No one, no one. Or everything could become ice. Loki imagined that, too. His mind, his lungs, his heart, all covered in a frosty sheen, and everything so cold that he couldn't feel anything, not the pain or the anger or the humiliation, and the tastelessness of ice could wash out the flavor of mud in his mouth. He'd be cradled in a frozen cocoon, and the chill would steal deep down into his chest, until he couldn't move his fingers or his toes or even remember who he was, and then maybe he'd die, and it wouldn't hurt so much –

_hurt so much _

But this wasn't anything new, really. This wasn't anything especially traumatic. He hadn't disappeared or died any of the other times _(even if, maybe, some part of him wanted too)_, and it certainly wasn't going to happen now. Besides, that was what they'd expect, wasn't it? Small Loki, weak Loki, sniveling and hiccupping and _dying _because he couldn't handle it.

Well, he'd show them_ – (even if he sometimes maybe almost believed them) – _they couldn't hurt him, not with their words and their hate. He could hate them more. He could hurt them in his own way. He'd be eighteen one day and he'd be grand and rich and glorious and they'd still be here, mired in the filth of this place, wriggling at his feet like worms – beseeching him, begging him, and he'd never forgive them, _never, never, never, _and then, and only then, would this cease to hurt – then this wouldn't hurt so much –

_wouldn't hurt _

_so _

_much _

_wouldn't_

_hurt, hurt, hurt_

_(you know that's not true, don't you?)_

"Just go away," the little boy muttered, going slack because he had no choice, and hating himself for it, "Just – just go…"

_One day, one day, one day – _

_ One day I'll be really strong. _

_(you really think so?) _

"Aw, but we're not done," Rodney sneered, grabbing a handful of Loki's shirt and yanking him away from the wall. The child stood there, dizzy, trembling, bleeding, as a dozen little bodies pressed in from all sides. What had he done to deserve this? He just wanted to read; he just wanted his book. He hadn't asked Laufey to kill anyone. He hadn't asked for the dissected bodies.

He hadn't _asked_ to be Laufey's son.

"We wanna play a game, Loki," his bully trilled, his porky arms swinging menacingly (_And stupidly, _Loki thought) as he rounded on his prey, "And we want you ta play with us."

The other children shrilled. Loki knotted his thin fingers into fists, feeling frail and insignificant, feeling the hatred burn hot and ashy in his throat. His body crumpled in his ragged clothes. He'd get them all back. He swore he would.

"I don't want to play a game," he hissed, his eyes drifting to his fallen book.

Rodney swiped it up. "But we need somebody to be the bad guy," he spat, tossing the novel from palm to palm. Loki trained his gaze on the boy's face. Rodney wanted him to beg for it; he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "So, Loki, _you'll _be the bad guy – and _we'll _be the police."

One day he'd be strong. One day he'd be tall and rich and powerful. One day they would regret doing this to him.

But right now he was seven-years-old; and he was bruised and tired and aching, and he was still small enough to wonder what he had done to deserve this.

_(vulnerable vulnerable vulnerable)_

Loki's lips twisted painfully. He didn't want to say it, but it pushed itself up from where it slept in his chest, clawing up his throat with the infectious pain of diseased talons, tumbling over his reluctant lips –

"Why do I always have to be the bad guy?"

Laughter hooted on all sides. Loki kept his mouth clamped shut, the resentment swelling in his throat like vomit. He just wanted his book; that was all; he just wanted to read. Why did they have to do this to him? What had _he _done?

He hated them. Oh, how he hated them. _Hate, hate, hate. _

_(but you know why you're the bad guy, don't you?)_

_ No, no…no. _

"Well, gee, _Laufey, _I don't know –" Rodney sneered, adopting a greasy, falsely innocent tone, "Maybe because – _uh – _you're _Laufey's son!" _

Snorts and sneers and snuffled giggles ricocheted off the walls and rebounded on their target – the little boy – standing stiff and still and oh so _vulnerable _at the center of the pack. For, indeed, the children had formed a _pack_ around him: a devious and predatory throng of little little orphans, all with little little eyes and little little mouths and little little hearts, each like a pebble in their chests, and when they uttered a sound, it came out shrill and heartless. They were a pack of rangy, infant wolves, sniffing the air for signs of weakness, for something to devour. And Loki was the wounded prey, bony and trapped and isolated, cornered by its slavering enemy – they decided he was the weak one; the frail one – or maybe just the different one. And Loki _was_ different. So different. Always, always, different.

But what had he done to deserve this?

Oh, how he hated, hated, hated –

_(who do you hate?)_

But this wasn't anything new or especially traumatic. This wasn't anything Loki had not heard before. And yet the words cut him deep down like some sort of special dagger, sliding neatly into that sore, secret part of him he kept hidden away. That already-open wound. The one that never really closed.

He wanted to be nothingness. He wanted to be ice. He wanted to be anything, _anything_ but –

"But I'm _not _Laufey!"

And Loki was ashamed, utterly ashamed, entirely revolted by the childish tears that sprang up in his eyes.

The moisture burned like acid and blotted out his vision like some sort of shameful smog. They thought him weak, and now they would think him even weaker. Their mocking cut him; it made him bleed. Loki always tried so hard to act _older – _and being older, to him, meant being able to don that cold, implacable mask that was _You-Can't-Hurt-Me-No-Matter-What-You-Do. _Adults knew how to close themselves up, to seal everything away with a steel eye and a stiff lip, and when they did no one could see inside of them, no one could prod at their hearts and their fears and their dreams, and that way no one could ever hurt them. Every social worker Loki had ever met had been exactly like this – smiles spray-painted over blank stone faces. Saccharine smiles and stone eyes. Loki wanted that. Loki wanted to be blank, cold, expressionless. Loki wanted to lock everything up and swallow the key and never, never, never be vulnerable.

But the mask was lopsided on his narrow, child's face. It fell slack, revealing nothing but a stringy, pitiable youth, a throwaway monster left in the snow to die – crying, crying, crying.

_Why does this have to happen to me? _

_(you know why)_

Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why couldn't they just let him read?

_I'll get you back_, Loki thought, watching through slit, blurry eyes as Rodney tore pages from his book, the mandated birthday present every orphan was entitled too; the tatty, beaten-up paperback he fished out of a box of secondhand toys. He watched as the pages fell down, dingy-white, like feathers ripped from a pigeon. _I'll make you sorry for this, _and the threat was both a venom and a nectar for him, something that sustained the child even when Rodney converged on him, fists and howls and bruises, _I'll make you hurt for doing this. _

The next day, quite unexpectedly, Rodney woke up covered in hives, screaming that someone had put itching power in his bed sheets.

* * *

a phantasmagoria

of

plastic faces

_{goawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoaw aygoawaygogogogogo} _

salt

and

bitterness

_{helpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehelp mehelphelphelphelp}_

needle needle needles,

needle and thread.

_he thinks,_

.

.

.

i am going to die now

* * *

"Loki."

He hears them say his name, again and again.

"Loki, Loki, Loki," a low and whispered mantra, hissed through gray, dead mouths, and Loki needs to pretend he doesn't see them and he needs to remember they aren't real.

Outside, in reality, he hears other people say his name.

"Loki."

Gajra uses his name sadly and efficiently, like it's some sort of unchanging tragedy she has learned to tolerate. Odinson, Loki notices, does not speak his name at all, but instead mutters "he" in a short, harried breath, like Loki's a cancer, or something poisonous, something that might kill him.

Loki wishes he could.

An entire year.

Bloodless hands clench at his bed sheets, and no, no, he's not going to think about this now; he's not going to remember – _an entire year _– he's going to think about something else, anything else, and not the skeletal IV stand and its grotesque plastic bag, dangling like an exposed organ, funneling somebody else's warm fluids into his body – _an entire year_ – no, no, no, he'll shut it out, he'll lock it up, the pain and the fury and the injustice, he'll bury it somewhere deep inside of him until it shrivels into a husk, dead, dead, and – _an entire year_ – even if it was nearly perfect – _an entire year_ – even if for a moment the earth held its breath and the air was black silk and he couldn't see them anymore – _an entire year_ – even if everything was gold and he was slipping, slipping, finally slipping into that lightless void that is his purpose – _an entire year_ – even if he was ice and no one and nothingness – _a year, a year, AN ENTIRE YEAR!_ some low, wretched part of him screams, but Loki silences it. He cannot think about this now. His body would become a straightjacket, and he would be quarantined within its breathing agonies.

So Loki will _not _think about how a drunkard ruined the suicide he'd been planning for a year.

"Loki, Loki, Loki," the Dead Children chatter, but he ignores them.

Gajra will return soon. A very predictable conversation will ensue, with his therapist hurling an arsenal of indelicate inquiries and Loki barricading himself with a mixture of lies and truths. Then Gajra will lean back in her chair, her lips pursed, and study him through dark, crafty eyes, her brown hands folded, picking at his words for traces of silver. She will undoubtedly find them. And then she will sigh, and crumple her mouth in a frown, and try telling him that suicide isn't the answer and they could talk about it and there are other ways and survivor's guilt is normal and they wouldn't have wanted that anyway and oh, we're going to incarcerate you in a white room for a couple of months until you feel better, now doesn't that sound nice? And she will talk and talk until he's drowning in her words, until he's gagging on false sentimentality and shallow promises and medical diagnosis.

Yes. It will all be very, very predictable.

But Thor Odinson had not been.

Loki's gaze falls to his hands, pale and dead as they cling to hospital bed sheets. His wrists resemble bleached bones, his veins long and skinny and purplish, creeping outside the breadth of his bandages. They sicken Loki. As does the IV needle, buried deep in his graying flesh, feeding lukewarm crimson into his starved, unwilling body. A bruise rises up around the needle's entry in a flush of blue and rose and lavender, and the sight thickens his revulsion into loathing, an oppressive, choking sentiment that withers all the air in his lungs. He wants to pull the needle out. It's not the pain; he's handled plenty of that. It's the thing's mere _presence_ – it's the idea that some thoughtless, white-clad, rubber-gloved doctor jabbed it mechanically into his arm without Loki's knowledge or approval – it's the fact that it's hooked up to a tube and a plastic bag and the plastic bag's full of red human liquid and its pumping life forcibly into his reluctant heart.

And something about the needle and the bruise and his translucent skin reminds Loki of how ugly he is.

_You were almost grand. _

Eleanor positively shrieks it.

Loki tastes venom on his tongue. No, no, Thor Odinson had not been expected. Loki had not imagined anyone stumbling upon him until hours later – and he assumed it would be an employee; he assumed he would already be dead. How had Odinson entered his room? Of course, the man was drunk, and brainless, and likely thought it was his own, but how could the receptionist hand him a key to a taken room?

And what had Gajra been thinking – bringing him _here? _

And _why _had the oaf agreed?

_I want to speak with you, _Odinson had said.

_And I want to cut your throat out, _Loki thinks savagely, _But neither of us are going to get what we want, now, are we? _

Gajra warns him about violent thoughts. She lectures that drenching the mind in blood is like causing fires. Snap. Hiss. Burn. It feels good to make things burn, doesn't it? To watch the things you hate writhe and crumple and cease to exist. There are things that deserve to burn, and Loki knows this. But fire, Gajra says, never stops with the things you hate – the things that deserve the heat and the smoke. Fire leaps, like demons, like laughing tongues, and gnaws away at everything else, until all you have is ashes, ashes, and nothing left to fall down. Ashes taste bitter, Gajra stresses. You don't want any ashes. You can't build up from ashes; you can only lie down with them and let them kiss you with their charred bitter mouths and either die or go mad. And this would not be a proper coping mechanism.

So don't have violent thoughts.

But what happens – Loki often wonders – when you hate _everything? _

What if _everything_ deserves to burn?

Certainly, Thor Odinson does.

_Creeping around in someone else's room – deciding whether I should live or die – but, of course, he has the _right. _He's wealthy, and famous, and beautiful, and people like that can do whatever they want. _

Loki clenches his bone fingers, the IV stinging in his arm, and feels ugly.

Eleanor sits on the side of his bed and laughs, laughs, laughs.

He can't take the laughing, not right now. Not with Odinson and Gajra just outside, talking about him. His mind throws up defenses – _Not real! _It shrills, the only thing it really knows how to do – And once it starts, it cannot stop; it just spits out the line again and again, blurs and muddles it until it's no longer intelligible, until it's a soup of panic, a skipping bit of nightmare film – _Not real! Not real! Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal notrealnot–?_

Eleanor continues to laugh.

Oh, how Loki hates everything.

Outside, he hears his betters discuss him, which is standard procedure. Loki does not waste breath sighing; Gajra does not waste energy closing the door or lowering her voice. She speaks in an even, carrying tone, the same sort of tone she uses on him, when they're sitting in her airy, wine-and-beige room, and she's trying to claw thoughts and feelings and memories and truths from him. She never succeeds, not really, just pulls silver-foil lies from the bloody cavern in his chest. It's only when he's angry that Loki says something truthful, and he's taught himself to wear masks that are cool and blank and implacable, and their frigidness wards away fury. Or at least dulls it. A coal submerged in ice.

Gajra does not bother to lower her voice.

Loki wonders if this is some kind of roundabout therapy technique. _I will talk about you like you're not here because it does not matter if you hear me; it does not matter if you hear me because you are insane, and therefore are not likely to understand me; if you want people to stop talking about you like you're not here, and do not understand them, then become sane. _It seems like the sort of convoluted thing Gajra would dream up – she has a habit of adapting to her patients, the way a chameleon adapts to its environment. Gajra Hansini, the chameleon-therapist. If Loki wants to play mind games, she'll flick herself silver and play them too.

Then again, it's always been this way, even before Gajra. Ever since the Kidnapping.

Oh, of course, people discussed Loki in front of Loki before the Kidnapping as well – they picked over his future and turned out bitter words about his flaws and needs – but it was different back then. At least _then_ there was the glimmer of freedom, a dull, hazy fringe of gold on a colorless horizon. Once he was eighteen, he would be in charge of himself, and then no one would need to discuss his next move for him; no one would have to tote him from place to place like a tattered handbag. He'd find his own place, and make his own path, and it'd be paved in moonbeams and dusk and starlight, and he'd be rich and grand and glorious and they'd be sorry they spent so long jabbing at his faults.

Silly, childish jibber.

Didn't Loki know his place?

He knows it now.

Anyway, after they found him in the Warehouse, curled and bloody, that dream-future soured the way old milk sours. Putridly. It lay in sodden, sick curdles at the back of his mind, spoiling his thoughts and his memories and his soul. Because there cannot be anything after the Kidnapping and the Warehouse and the Stitches: there can only be the Analysis and the Diagnosis and the "Okay-What-Are-We-Going-To-Do-With-Him-Now?" He remembers a forest of gray-faced institutions, and labyrinths of corridors where the air was so cold that your breath condensed into white clouds. He recalls the blindingly electric lights, leaching life from your insides, and the manicured gardens where sick children were supposed to play – no one ever did. He remembers the loneliness and the apathy, tasting like tap-water on still air.

And therapies in sterile rooms with sterile strangers and sterile smiles.

And sterile trays with sterile pills when the sterile therapies don't work.

Always.

Forever.

Madness makes you worthless. Loki knows this.

Nobody listens, once you're mad, everything you say and do and feel is chalked up to jitters and pain and phantoms and insensibility. The mad don't _think._ The mad don't_ process_ and _understand_. And the mad certainly don't _know_. Everything that falls out of a mad person's mouth is fool's gold, or in Loki's case, the grayish-silver of tinfoil. Tinfoil-words – no one will listen to those, and anyway, he's mad, which means he has an incurable disease, which means he doesn't understand and he isn't really wanted but he's forever-vulnerable and therefore cannot make decisions for himself. Professionals will have to do it for him, people dressed in crisp buttoned shirts and shiny laminated badges: _Hello, My Name is Dr. – _but the name doesn't matter, because it's all the same. He doesn't know what's good for him, they'll all say, because he's mad. He doesn't know anything. So we'll decide for him – we'll dissect him like a corpse at an autopsy – and it won't matter if he screams or bleeds (not that Loki ever, ever would) because he's mad and what does he know of pain, anyway? It's all for the best, it's all in his best interest. We know his best interests. Law-mandated-best-interests. We know his body and his mind and his soul. We _own _his body and his mind and his soul. Let him overhear us talking, it doesn't matter, he won't understand. He'll sit counting dust motes or murmuring to shadows, quiet and obedient while they talk about him in audible voices.

And if he's not quiet and obedient, we'll lock him up.

But it's for his own good!

A law-mandated good!

This is all rather ironic, given that therapists are supposed to talk to mad people. Or pretend to talk to them. Loki does not remember which.

Or Gajra could just be playing one of her mind tricks.

She discusses Loki's scripted future with Odinson.

"_What will happen to him?" _The man beseeches.

Loki is an unwanted cargo; he is an undesired prop; a lifeless thing to be shifted around by other people. Like Styrofoam, he cannot disappear entirely, so they must hide him away somewhere and pretend he does not exist.

"_He'll need to go to rehab for a while," _Gajra answers, predictably, and the emphasis is "need," because doctors and psychiatrists and other professionals have mandated that colorless rooms and ink blots and windows full of trees will cure all illnesses. Even incurable ones. And Loki must bow to such logic, of course.

Then his therapist rattles off something about "coping mechanisms" and "moving on" and Loki stops listening. He'll have to hear all firsthand, anyway, once Gajra returns. It will be a taut and predictable and silver conversation.

Loki stares at the IV, stinging in his arm. Perhaps he'll pull it out –

"_I – I _am _sorry," _Odinson's words boom out. "_I truly am." _

_Sorry? Sorry? _

Loki sputters on the words, chokes, his fingers tripping over the needle.

He imagines his apartment, a dull little shack honeycombed in a falling building. There would be water dripping in from the ceiling, no doubt, after all this rain. And he imagines Odinson, inherently golden, with his fine-spun hair and expensive clothing.

_I am sorry. _

Loki's stomach shrivels into a stone. _I am sorry. _Those blue eyes, like the color of painted china. _I am sorry. _Those blue eyes, the color of painted china, looking at _him. I am sorry. _Loki's stone-stomach continues to shrivel until it crumbles into a thousand sharp-toothed shards, piercing at his insides. _I am sorry. _He thinks blood poisoning must feel this way, a slow venom in your veins.

_You can take your mighty apology. You can take your pity, your insufferable, obnoxious, rich man's pity, and shove it up your – _

"Loki?"

Gajra. Loki does not turn towards her.

"I was rather thinking we were done for today," he lies, and quite smoothly, he thinks, for a man who ought to be dead.

He feels Gajra's mouth compress into a line. He does not have to look to see her frown, hanging above him.

"Were you trying to pull out your IV?" she says.

"Now," Loki pauses, letting the word settle on the disinfected hospital air, "Why would I do something like that?"

"Oh, _Loki." _

He will have to look up now. His chilly nonchalance, tinged with sarcasm, will not appear sincere if he keeps staring at the needle and the bruise and the pasty whiteness of his skin.

His therapist stands at his bedside, like a specter, haunting with her dark-dark eyes and thin mouth.

"Why, Loki?" She asks, softly.

He watches her. "Why, what?"

Gajra's mouth, if possible, shrinks further. Her eyes look tortured beneath their curling lashes. Loki supposes it's frustrating, dealing with only impossible cases – but then again, impossible cases are Gajra Hansini's forte. She's a special sort of a therapist, one who receives her paychecks from the government; one who deals with those special sorts of patients who are deemed "incurable" and do not really want her help.

Gajra had been Loki's last psychiatric ward's idea of giving him _options: _he could either rot behind their plastered walls or depart on the leash of a therapist who had twenty-four-seven access to him.

Leashes can be cut.

Or so Loki thought.

Lines bunch around Gajra's eyes. "Please. Let's not play games. You told me things were going well."

Her voice is calm, calm, calm. How can her mouth be so thin, but her tone so calm? It stretches out to him in smooth, even notes.

Loki does not answer right away. He sifts words around his mouth, both silver and truthful, choosing carefully.

"Everything was going well…" He breathes it, and Eleanor watches him from the corner of the room, no longer laughing, winking in and out of existence; a half-formed person, "Everything was going fine – until he showed up."

He.

_Wealthy, and famous, and beautiful. _

They both, of course, know who _he_ is.

_People like that can do whatever they want. _

Oh, can't he pull the IV out of his arm?

Gajra sits down, neatly, almost businesslike, in the chair the nurse brought in for her. She tacks a piece of satiny-raven hair behind her ear, the orange of her nail polish catching in the electric light, making Loki nauseous. He does not feel like doing this right now. He does not feel like spinning convoluted, silver webs and avoiding razor-cut questions. He's tired and he wants the IV out of his arm.

"You're angry Thor found you," she acknowledges placidly.

Loki's tongue coils in revulsion. "On a first name basis, I see. Is that why you invited him to our little therapy session?"

Gajra answers fearlessly, "He asked to see you."

Loki laughs: a sharp, hissing sound, without breath.

"Loki…" Gajra lets his name trail out, like a piece of black ribbon, unfolding; "I know you're angry. I know you're…disappointed. But your feelings for Thor are misplaced. You're angry at the situation –"

"_Misplaced? The situation?" _Loki twists violently in his bed, hate rising slick and hot as vomit in his throat, his hair flying in an ink-colored shroud about his chin, "The drunkard, breaking into _my_ room – deciding _my_ fate –"

"Thor did not break into your room," Gajra cuts evenly over his words, some of the fullness returning to her mouth now that she has elicited a response from her patient, "The receptionist accidentally assigned him your room number. She gave him a key to your room. He had no idea you were inside." She pauses, and her next words are full of sighs, "And we've talked about this, Loki. Suicide is _not _the road to independence."

_Everything was gold. _

But Loki does not expect her to understand.

"It wasn't a suicide attempt," he answers instead, and it's such an obvious and impractical lie that even his silvertongue spurns it. He feels it curl in his mouth; furred in disgust.

Gajra watches him sadly.

There is a taste like leather in his mouth. Eleanor stands in the corner, but she does not laugh now. She watches him too. Her long blonde hair is plaited with braids and blood. Her eyes are the color of mist, which is not really a color at all, just an opaque, endless thing that swallows and dampens everything.

Loki does not look at her, but her gaze drills into him, the way a nail drives into a coffin.

His jaw works automatically, "I didn't try to kill myself."

Eleanor does not smile.

What – what is _this?_ Loki's eyes drop to his hands, half-curled on his bed sheets, and tries to fathom what his mouth just said. Because, surely, his mouth made those words without his knowledge or accordance; he does not own these statements, these are not his own. They leave a strange scraping sensation in his throat.

Loki knows how to lie.

More specifically, Loki knows how to lie _well. _

He knows how to hone false words until they are sharp with the façade of sincerity. Until they can cut you. He has never salted his tongue with those silly Boy-Who-Cried-Wolf lies: those gluttonous untruths spewed without thought or purpose, randomly and meaninglessly tossed from stupid lips. "Wolf!" the Boy shrieks, without a care that the villagers will immediately see through his gauzy proclamation; "Wolf!" he shrills, knowing full well he cannot conjure evidence for this phantom-canine; "Wolf!" he screams, without a single idea in his dull, fat head, a transparent, ridiculous lie – True liars weave silver silk into a tapestry of half-truth, half-deceit, until the falsehoods are so nestled in veracity that their silver looks golden.

"Wolf, wolf!" the Boy squeals, when the hound finally appears. "Wolf, wolf!" Of course, no one came. The idiot deserves to die.

So why does Loki shout "wolf!" now in Gajra's disbelieving face?

Clearly…clearly he…clearly, they all know…even strangers, even _Odinson_…they all _know…_

There is a burning feeling in his gut. _Stay calm, stay blank, stay ice. _

"What prompted this, Loki?" Gajra's words are soft, downy clouds, "Was it Eleanor?"

Is he a pathological liar now?

Has it really come to this?

"No," he argues, though Eleanor still watches, a nail in a coffin, "I didn't –" The words are like old coins in his mouth, cold and dirty, clinking unbearably against his teeth; his blood feels like sewage in his veins; he hates himself, oh, oh, how he hates himself, "You don't know –" His voice comes out a strangled hiss, and Loki hates that too, he hates everything – Eleanor and Gajra and himself and _Odinson_, the Golden One, with his sun-spun hair and china-blue eyes.

Gajra knows better than to touch him. She simply leans forward.

"Loki. Was it Eleanor?"

She always assumes it's Eleanor. Loki's teeth clack together in self-derision. Of course, Eleanor had been there, all braids and blood. But they all were there. The Dead Children. Gray shapes against a golden backdrop. His throat closes up, and he wants to pull the IV out, the needle buried in a riot of bruises, and oh, how grotesque it is, the blue and the purple and the black, the skeletal arm; oh, how he hates himself. There can be nothing as despicable as him. Hate, hate, hate. How he loathes Loki Laufeyson.

But pride is a peculiar thing: it's like a muzzle: it wires his jaw shut.

_Stay calm, stay blank, stay ice. _

Everything had been gold, for a moment – gold, like Odinson's hair, falling in a burnished halo.

"_I am sorry." _Like the voice of a god. Booming. _"I _AM_ sorry." _

China-blue eyes and golden-halo hair. Watching him. _Him. _Loki. A raw, ugly, bloodless thing, staked with IVs and diagnoses. How pathetic he must look, a blue-limbed infant left out with the trash; how lowly he must seem to one who dines on ambrosia and bathes in the love of mortals. But still he watches, with an expensive sort of pity, _Oh, you worthless thing, I will pretend to see you. _

_ I hate you, I hate you. I hate…I hate…I hate… _

"Survivor's guilt is normal," Gajra says, and Loki thinks, _Predictable. _

Eleanor is like autumn – dying, but not dead. She has not left. She watches him, she drinks in his hate. She hates him in return.

"It's normal," the therapist repeats, tapping her fingertips against the tube dripping blood into his body, trying to alert him, "But it's _not_ your fault that Eleanor died before they found you."

She's wrong, of course. It is his fault. And not just Eleanor, but all of them. Twelve children, and only one survives, hides in the wreckage, in the blood and the pus and the cobwebs. A game of hide-and-seek.

A Mother Goose rhyme –

_Twelve children, then ten, then eight, then six, then four, then two. _

Him and Eleanor.

_Then one. _

Everything is his fault.

Inside of him, there is hollowness. Only hollowness. And hate. Hate devours guilt the way a flame devours paper, leaving nothing but ashes, nothing but faint gray cinders swept up silently in the bitter ice winds of his mind – because he has no soul, he has no truth, he has nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Living is not a sin, Loki."

_Twelve children,_

"You are not responsible for what happened."

_Then ten,_

"Your suffering won't…won't make it more right."

_Then eight,_

"What happened was traumatic –"

_Then six, _

"It was cruel, it was violent, but it was _chance. _There was no meaning, no destiny behind it. It wasn't divine punishment."

_Then four, _

"They were horrible people, and they did horrible things. The world can seem very horrible. It can seem random, senseless. Evil is always senseless, Loki. It does not seek you out – it preys on everyone. You cannot punish yourself for evil."

_Then two, _

"I know Eleanor was with you the longest. I know she was…the last."

_Then one. _

"But your death won't take back what happened."

They are perhaps the only truthful words Gajra has ever said to him.

* * *

A/N: Oh! The weird bit in the middle references the time Loki was kidnaped.


	5. Chapter Four: Bruise

**A/N: **Yes. I bet you all thought I had given up on this story, hadn't you?

And yet...here...I...am...crawling...crawling...crawling through this...fic... /dies/

I apologize for the melodrama. Believe it or not - I have been working on this pretty steadfastly throughout September. Unfortunately, I have just started grad school, and it's a pain in the - /CENSOR/ - I'm trying to hold down two jobs and attend classes and I have to do a lot of traveling in between.

However, honestly, I love Loki. And Thor. And this fandom. And...everything. So even though I had to squeeze writing this on the weekends, in between my hectic schedule, it was worth it. I can honestly say the pleasure I get from writing this - and from hearing from you - definitely makes it worth it.

I apologize that it's up so late - it's not even as long as I wanted it to be. **With all the craziness in my life right now, I have barely any free time, making it significantly difficult to write in this.** But like I said, you guys bring me joy. And I figured its better for you guys to wait and get a long, reasonably put-together chapter than a scattered five page chapter that's crap.

This chapter was supposed to end with another Thor-Loki encounter. I'm sad to say I have to save that scene for next chapter, but I think it'll make the fic more balanced, anyway. The last encounter was from Thor's POV, so this one will be from Loki's. Oh dear.

**The encounter is being saved, but this chapter should hopefully accomplish some plot devices. Several other Avengers are mentioned here. Remember: It's an AU, so if a particular character's setting feels very different from his/her original - it's an AU! **

I know I never individually responded to all your comments last time. I'm so sorry. I literally have no free time. I swear, beautiful readers, one day, when I do have time (I don't know when that will be), I will send you all PMs heartily thanking you for how glorious each and every one of you is.

**For now, I can do nothing but say THANK YOU. THANK YOU WITH ALL MY HEART.**

Please excuse any grammatical errors, especially towards the end. When I have a life again, I will try to weed out typos. Right now it's 6 AM where I am - and I'm just so desperate to post that I'm forgoing sleep to write. So that's the reason for any glitches.

And here we go:

* * *

"_Tis true,_

_Tis true, _

_Tis true_

_Celebrities always do, _

_Us and our shadows, too_

_Us and our _

_shadows." _

"Beautiful Stranger," _The Devil's Carnival _

**Chapter Four **

**Bruise **

_"But now you, like Loki, must learn to let go. You've done your good deed. Now go out and live your life." _

Thor tries.

He steps back into his golden bubble, away from the dirt and the blood and the cuttingly green eyes of strangers, and finds everything too bright. His world suddenly dazzles him: little winks of diamond-and-sapphire-and-rose, blurring his vision into a kaleidoscope of fortune. Nothing seems real here, in this place of wine and wealth and glamour – it's all synthesized, it's all gilded paint over a gray reality. How could the things here be so beautiful? Those glass windows – that polished furniture? How could the food be so sweet, so luscious, so perfectly abundant here? And how could people smile so easily at him – so carelessly – thoughtless? His red curtains ripple like velvet in the winds, unfurling and sighing in an expensive sort of joy.

How could any of this be real – how could it _possibly _coexist – with the ugly white of hospital walls and blood stains on tiles?

Thor doesn't know, he doesn't know.

His life falls in a glorious halo, bathing him in its endless warmth, but its rays stretch no further than his mullioned windows. Outside, the world is dim and cruel and tasting of antiseptic, and inside, snug in yellow light, Thor's halo feels false, close, too glittering. Such loveliness cannot be real – not when there are chill hotel bathrooms full of dark and running water, and strange, anonymous men willing to cut themselves open in them. Thor thinks about such men, he thinks about white skin that must feel like snow under your fingertips, and black hair that curls like liquid shadow, and strange eyes that are sharp and brittle as glass. Such men do not live in grandeur. They live in some other existence, some strange underside of life, where the streets weep foulness and sidewalks spawn desecrations – he lives in the mists beyond Thor's halo, and he's entirely untouchable.

Not that Thor wants to touch him. Laufeyson is a nightmare-thing, something to haunt him in his waking hours.

He makes loveliness seem impossible. Thor walks through his life as though it's a dream, surreal and sparkling, familiar but – _odd. _How can that be? He has always known this life, this gold-paved, satin-washed, wine-bedewed life, and suddenly it's alien to him, suddenly it's shimmering and vaporous as a mirage. Shouldn't Laufeyson be the strange one – the unreal one? Certainly, he's the anomaly in Thor's polished world. He's as terrifying and unfamiliar as the thing under your bed. That thing your child-self pretends isn't there, sitting stiff and freezing with the covers tangled about you, that thing you pretend not to hear scuffle and bump somewhere far-far-below. And yet you want to see it, as much as it scares you: it's that cold hitch in your breathing; it's that nervous twitch of your little-child fingers, it's that nagging twist of horror and curiosity that compels you to creep to the edge of your mattress – to _look, look, look_ – and see what you don't want to see.

Except Laufeyson is beautiful.

He's beautiful, and his life's unfair, and it's not his fault, and he's the most real thing Thor has ever seen.

_Now go out and life your life_, Gajra had said.

But how can he – when Laufeyson makes everything Thor knows look like a lie?

The telephone shrills down the hallway. Thor grits his teeth, debating over whether he should answer it or not. He has not had a moment's peace since he left the hospital yesterday. Reporters had teemed in the parking lot, swelling up in riotous, shrieking waves as he made his way to his car, barking out comments and inquiries. It had taken all his effort not to run them over as he zipped out onto the clogged Manhattan streets.

"Do you have any idea who that man is, Mr. Odinson?" a female reporter kept jabbing the question at him, all the way to his car door. Her blonde hair fell in perfect sheaths and her mouth was pink and her eyes were like razors, cutting. "Do you have anything to say about your father's alleged responsibility for the Asgard Kidnapping Case? Do you think he should have compensated Laufeyson–?"

Thor slammed the door in her face. She was lucky he did not break her recorder first.

He thought home would be a haven, but it wasn't. He cannot eat because the memory of Laufeyson makes him nauseous. He cannot sleep because the memory of Laufeyson makes him edgy. And he cannot relax because the telephone rings endlessly: newspapers, magazines, even T.V. personnel – they all want to pick his brain for details, for thoughts and opinions on Laufeyson and how truly pathetic he is and how ironic it is that Thor Odinson (of all people!) should find him. They're all fishing for the makings of a ripe story.

Thor won't give it to them. The very thought of it makes him ill.

He's thankful for his agent, Alvin Peterson. Thor's always found the little man absurdly uptight and ridiculously anxious, but he now recognizes his nervous tics as thoroughness. He's warned Thor almost obsessively against disclosing his home address, and has even filed documents against fans and paparazzi entering the parameters around his house. Thor does not think he could control himself if that protection did not exist: if legions of microphone-waving, recorder-toting, mouth-gabbling journalists converged on his porch, shouting and hawking their questions. Someone would end up with a broken jaw, or at least a black eye, and then Thor's career would be over – even if the jackass deserved it.

But they were still calling. And Thor was sick of it.

He lets the telephone shriek, a keening whine that slices unpleasantly through the air. He's reclining on his sofa, a fine thing of red leather with a heavy quilt his mother stitched thrown across it, attempting to watch reruns of his last football game. The commentators are showering his every move with praise, and Thor watches his miniature on the widescreen television, marveling how he charges across the field with such ease and grace and speed, and wishes he could maneuver through this situation with similar deftness.

_"And Odinson scores yet ANOTHER touchdown –!"_

He's worked hard for his fame, hasn't he? His games have always been glorious, and he always leads his team into victory. It's not his fault that Laufeyson has accrued nothing but a sickly sort of infamy. It has nothing to do with him.

_do you have anything to say about your father's alleged responsibility for the Asgard Kidnapping Case? _

Nothing. Nothing to do with him.

The telephone has stopped ringing. Something rattles on the cherry side-table. Thor turns and sees his cell phone, set on vibrate, wobbling against the wooden surface. Only family and close associates use his cell phone; perhaps his ignored house call wasn't another attempt for a newspaper article.

He glances at the incoming name.

_Alvin. _

Well, Thor supposes Alvin was going to hear about this eventually.

"Al?"

"Thor – Thor – you can't – you can't do this to me, buddy," the man practically gasps on the other end, "I've been out of my mind with worry – calling for two days straight – you haven't picked up –"

There's something so comfortingly familiar about Alvin's panic. Thor nearly smiles.

"I am fine, Al. I'm home."

"The news –!"

"I know."

"Loki Laufeyson–!"

Thor tries to keep the sigh out of his voice. "I know."

Why must they talk about this? Now go out and live your life, Gajra had said. How can he do this if the world keeps clamoring to remind him about Laufeyson? He needs to forget about the hum of running water, the biting scent of ammonia; he needs to drown out the image of a white white face, strange and silken behind its oxygen mask.

"So you heard about the video? And you didn't call me?"

Thor jolts, an electric charge shooting through his entire body.

_"What?" _

He hears scuffles on the other end. Alvin's sweaty hands are likely fumbling with the phone.

"Some bastard on your hotel floor took out his cell phone and recorded you screaming about Laufeyson."

Thor feels hot all over. This is not happening, this is not happening. A sour taste seeps through his clenched teeth, drying his mouth and shriveling his tongue. He wants to break things. He should have crushed that damned woman's recorder, smashed every microphone they shoved under his nose – he should have driven his Mercedes through the plain, gray doors of the hospital building. Since when have people acted this way? Fighting like starved cats for a scrap of gossip, glutting themselves on another man's misery. Taping Thor's reaction to Laufeyson's suicide attempt –! It's a cowardly move, it's lowly, it's _despicable_, and Thor clamps his hands into fists, imagining his fingers tightening over the offender's throat. This cannot be happening. Millions of people, watching him stumble around in drunken panic, while Laufeyson – _while Laufeyson –_

His vision bleeds crimson.

"They taped Laufeyson unconscious on the floor?"

"I'm working on –" Alvin starts up, but judders to an erratic stop, "Wait – what?"

Thor cannot see his living room. He's peering through a hellish smog, the couch and the table and the chairs deformed into reddish humps. The roaring in his ears mutes the babble of the television.

"They taped Laufeyson bleeding on the floor?"

The roaring pitches forward into a screaming gale. He'll do more than strangle this person; he'll break every bone –

"Laufeyson…what…no, no," Alvin answers distractedly, "Come on, pal, the bastard was too far away to get Laufeyson on camera. He was at the back of the crowd. It's just you – acting drunk – it's all blurry –"

There had been a crowd? A small bit of Thor's rage detaches itself and freezes into an icy discomfort. He must have been very drunk indeed; he does not remember a herd of bodies. He only remembers Laufeyson, pale and limp on the floor, and a black woman who said she was a nurse and told him to calm down calm down as she wrapped cloth around the drooling red smiles cut into his wrists. And the cleaning man, calling the ambulance. That's all he remembers.

He still wants to break things.

"Where's it posted?" he says gruffly.

"Well, everywhere, now," his agent whines, "It probably started on YouTube – you know how these things go. Look, pal, I'm doing damage control, okay, but you gotta work with me. I'll get the thing off, I'm gonna sue the jackass, but –"

"I don't care about suing – I want to find this person and –"

"– but this is really bad for your image –"

"– I'm going to break his jaw –"

"Don't do that: it'll make things look worse. Listen, buddy, saving a guy's life looks good, but not when you're drunk. You know people – no good deed goes unpunished. They'll find a way to say it's irresponsible. You know – could have done more if you were sober – blah, blah, blah – that sorta thing. It's bad publicity, plain and simple. And Laufeyson's not exactly number one on the popularity charts. So, what I need you to do – you're listening, right, buddy? 'Cause this is really important; I need you to listen – I know it isn't your style, but I need you to lie low for a little bit. Sit quiet and _don't _talk to any reporters until we come up with a statement –"

"Statement?"

The word drops, like a cold thing, from Thor's lips.

"Yeah, buddy. We gotta play this game carefully. You can't just say anything. I promise you, you're gonna come out of this smelling like a rose. We'll spruce up something about your valor and altruism – but until then, lie low –"

Thor thinks of Laufeyson, of his cruel lips smiling, of his green eyes slashing.

_This is a publicity stunt for you; a way to win over crowds; make them love you. _

His body seems to seize up on itself: his stomach heaves, his throat closes, his muscles knot and stiffen; his heart pounds ruthlessly against his ribcage. His mind is a vat of hot smoke, obscuring all thought, all logic. _Until we come up with a statement. _Laufeyson, sprawled out on the tiles, his black hair spilling into shimmering blood stains. _You're gonna come out of this smelling like a rose. _But Laufeyson's blood had looked like lotus flowers, pink and diluted, floating atop the puddles of bath water. _Valor and altruism. _And Laufeyson saying no one asked Thor to save his life, and Gajra talking about how no one loved him, and Thor still not understanding how someone could _want _to die. How someone could – knowingly and deliberately – take a knife's edge and examine his veins and – _Make them love you. _But no one loved Laufeyson; that's what Gajra said: he's pale and thin and bitter, spitting out mouthfuls of razors, and no one ever, ever loved him. _Make them love you. _Yes. Thor would make a statement about an unloved stranger he found bleeding on his bathroom tiles, and how sharp and unfriendly he is, and how truly pathetic, and Thor would monopolize his pain and his blood and his bitterness to make people love him more.

But Thor does not have to ask people to love him. They already do. It's impossible to make them love him more.

There's a taste like vomit in his throat.

_It's not my fault…I have nothing to do with – I deserve what I have…I didn't ask – it's not my fault. _

"There will be no statement," he growls into the receiver.

"Thor – buddy – it's not that I think you can't come up with it on your own, it's just –"

"_Alvin!" _Thor booms into his phone, "I said there will be_ – no_ – _statement._ Did you not hear me the first time? It seems like you're ignoring everything I say."

Alvin sputters. "Thor, pal, buddy – of course, I'm listening! It's just – this is crazy talk – I mean, it's already all over the news; we've gotta say something –"

"For God's sake, Al! The man's suicidal! What more can we say about it? He's sick? He's disturbed? Does he need that broadcasted? Do _I _need that broadcasted? He's sick, and I put him in the hospital. That's it – end of story – _it's done. _I'm not talking about this anymore; I'm sick of talking about this; I'm _never _talking about Laufeyson again –"

"Buddy!" Alvin spits out in panic, "Come on, buddy–!"

"And _stop," _Thor hisses into the mouthpiece, "_Calling me buddy."_

He does not wait for an answer.

He flings the cell phone away from him, watches it shatter in an explosion of little metal parts, and then overturns his coffee table. Paraphernalia goes flying: magazines and fan mail and the glass of vodka he'd been drinking – there's a scatter of paper and the chink of broken glass and an unearthly crack as the wooden table loses one of its legs against the floor. But it's not satisfying enough; not nearly satisfying enough. _We've gotta say something. _He tears a portrait off the wall and sends it careening through the air. _Come on, buddy. _It lands squarely against the opposite wall, chipping away at the red paint. _Make them love you. _But it's not Thor's fault that people love him; it's not Thor's fault that people don't love Loki Laufeyson. Loki Laufeyson is not Thor's problem. _We gotta play this game carefully. _The T.V. chatters beneath his rage, a consistent babble of excited voices, the faint, familiar static of a crowd chanting _'Thunderers! Thunderers!'_ as Thor's televised self crashes through the defenses and scores the winning goal. _Make them love you. _Thor grabs the broken leg of the table and chucks it directly at the screen. _Make them love you. _It meets its target with a screech and a sizzle and an almighty groan as the flat screen tips precariously and falls over, yanking its tangle of plugs along with it.

Damn Laufeyson. _Damn _him. It's not Thor's fault that he tried to kill himself. It's not Thor's fault that he found him. It's not Thor's fault that the man's mother was probably a drug-addict who mingled with criminals and left her baby out in the snow to die. And it's certainly not Thor's fault that _his _mother tucked him in on the night he first found out about the kidnapped children – that Frigga ran her hands smoothly over his comforter, _"Your father and I would never let anything like that happen to you…" _And it's not his fault, it's not, it's not, it's _not. _

_oh God, he did that to himself; who does that to himself –? _

Why are his eyes stinging? It must be the faint smoke from the T.V., that acrid smog curling up from the cracked screen – jabbing at his eyes and making them burn.

"Thor…!" a voice travels hoarsely across the wreckage, "Thor, what on _earth _did you do?"

Thor whips his head around and sees his mother gazing transfixed at his living room.

"What happened here?"

The reddish haze in his mind begins to clear. Thor stares around the room, almost as shocked as his mother, examining the broken table and scratched walls and shattered T.V. screen. He just trashed his living room. He just trashed his living room because of Loki Laufeyson. Or was it because of Alvin? He honestly doesn't know.

He only knows he was angry, and then Frigga –

_Mother. _

Thor's stomach clenches.

"Mother –" He turns wildly towards her, embarrassed, alarmed, "What are you doing here? You – you didn't tell me you were visiting."

"I wanted to see you," Frigga's face is a mask, stitched with worry lines, "I was worried about you. And for good reason, I see."

Thor grimaces. "This is not as bad as it looks."

His mother appears more sad than frightened.

"I know you, my child," she sighs, and her sigh fall down among the ruin, cooling everything. Thor feels his tension unwind ever slightly. He knows his mother's tone; he remembers it well. It's the voice she would use when he was a boy, and in trouble, and too terrified to tell his father what he had done wrong. "Please. Tell me what's bothering you enough to destroy all these expensive things."

Thor smiles vaguely. "Mother…"

"I thought you too old for these sorts of tantrums," Frigga bustles, as though the mangled living room is no more than a broken toy, "But I see children never really change."

She picks her way through the debris, her footfalls too controlled to be considered dainty. Thor marvels over her stature. He has never noticed it before, but there's a certain regality to his mother, a calmness and even-tempered authority that bespeaks strength. And he's always considered Odin the strong one, stout and reliable as a rock. He supposes he should pay more attention to his mother.

Frigga perches herself on the sofa and pats the empty space besides her.

"Come."

Thor frowns. "Really, Mother, I'm not a little boy. There's no need to dote on me so."

"All men are little boys," Frigga answers stubbornly, "And they all want their mothers to dote on them, as long as their friends don't hear about it."

Thor almost chortles, but then he remembers Laufeyson, and a black cloud chokes his smile.

"Mother…"

"This is about Loki, isn't it?"

Thor snaps his gaze to her. Her mother looks at him expectantly, her mouth set in a queenly purse, her eyes softening to dew as they scrutinize him. _Loki. _She calls him Loki, as though she knows him, as though he's part of the family. How can she talk so familiarly about him? So easily? _Loki. _It sounds altogether too intimate.

"Why –" Thor blusters, wracking a hand distractedly through his hair, "Why – would you say that?"

Frigga squeezes her hands together. "Sif told me what happened, my son. Come sit down and talk to me."

Thor does not want to. He just told Alvin he would never discuss Laufeyson again. And yet there are words crouched on the tip of his tongue, waiting to leap from his mouth. He cannot swallow them. They scrape against the inside of his throat.

"There is nothing to say," he grumbles, though he drops onto the sofa besides her. "I'm a grown man, Mother. You don't need to worry about me. I can handle myself."

Frigga touches his butter-blonde hair. "I know."

So then what is this unbearable pressure in his chest? Like a knife, slowly twisting. Why does he think his hands might shake if he unclenches them? Shame pours over him, hot and sticky, like tar. _Thor Odinson, _he tells the shame, reminds it who he is, proud and strong and glorious, _Thor Odinson, Thor Odinson, Thor Odinson! – _but the shame does not listen. It spills itself down his throat, dark and sludge-like, and tries to drown him from the inside. _Thor Odinson, _he snarls, but it does not care – _Thor Odinson! _Shame intends to suffocate him on his own name.

"Thor?"

He tries to unlatch his jaw. He tries to speak.

"I do not wish to upset you."

"You will not," Frigga answers, touching his chin and tilting it delicately, so that their gazes meet, "Please, tell me."

He searches her eyes. They are like his, blue and clear, water on a still summer day.

The words tumble from him, "He's sick. He has no one. Gajra – his therapist – she said so. He's Laufey's son. And they are saying it's Father's fault. They are saying Father should have prevented the kidnapping –"

"People will always blame someone," Frigga says, "When something horrible happens."

Something horrible. Thor thinks about Laufeyson, wisp-thin and bloodless, struggling up from the hospital bed. He thinks about lotus flowers of blood, and a man lying in them.

_oh God, oh God _

"How did it happen?" Thor asks.

Why does he want to know?

"No one knows for sure," Frigga answers softly, and she sounds faraway, immersed in sad reverie, "Only Loki, but he refused to speak of it, even when he was first rescued and interrogated." She pauses, sorrow playing like shadows over her face, "It was Christmastime," she begins, not falteringly, though there's a hushed tone to her voice, "And there was a fair. You know Asgard Orphanage, it was located in upstate New York, and there were always fairs and carnivals and things like that for the children. Your father wanted them to be happy. That's why he founded the home, why he sponsored it."

Cold settles in the pit of Thor's stomach. "But what _happened?" _

"The caregivers wanted to take them," Frigga elaborates, running her thumb over his roughened palm, "It was a few nights before Christmas Eve, and they thought the children should enjoy themselves. I imagine it must be especially lonely, being an orphan, around holidays. The caregivers must have wanted them to forget. So they asked your father's permission, and he told them they could attend."

Frigga stops. For the first time, her resolve shudders, nearly breaks. She does not look at Thor. She stares at nothing, speaking.

"The fair was so small; the children were allowed to wander. The caregivers thought it would be safe. They knew the employees well. There were fences around the area. Nothing could happen. Loki went off with a little girl named Eleanor; she had apparently convinced him that there was a fortune teller there, and she could really work magic. But they never came back. And neither did ten other children."

The words stain the air. Thor thinks if he breathes, he'll be poisoned.

"But how did they break in?" He presses, the hard edge of anger stamped into his voice, "How did no one notice?"

Frigga closes her eyes. She grips Thor's hand more tightly, and he almost tells her not to answer, that it's alright, that he doesn't really want to know anyway. And he doesn't. But he has to. He _has _to.

She responds before he can sort out the strange tangle of thought.

"It was an inside job," she explains, quietly, "It must have been. Nothing…nothing else makes sense. The details were gone over again and again. Your father was indicted, of course." Frigga's eyes seem to flare at this, her mouth shrinking until it's small and forbidding. Even now, years later, she still smarts over the injustices dealt to her husband. "…but he wasn't even there. And there was nothing to suggest he knew what would happen at the fair." She sighs, her expression loosening now, "But other people were accused. The caregivers; the fair's staff; but no one was ever convicted. It was a sticky case. Loki was the only witness, but he was traumatized. Even if he was willing to give testimony, he was too – too hurt – to give very reliable answers."

_Reliable. _A euphemism for coherent.

Something sours in Thor's mouth. How did he think this would help him? He sees Laufeyson in his mind, raven lashes curling over dagger green eyes. Haunted. Only half-alive. A shadow of a man. He tries to reconcile him with muddy photo printed on the newspapers: that hunched shadow that was a little boy cocooned in ambulatory blankets, his face hidden. There was a lot of debate about that photograph, if Thor recalls correctly. Arguments about whether it was ethical or not.

_About as ethical as taping my reaction to his suicide. _

The sourness sharpens into a burning. It bites his tongue. If Frigga was not here, he would break something.

"No one was ever caught?" he chokes out.

Frigga watches him worriedly. "No."

"So they got away with it?"

"Oh, Thor," Frigga breathes, and her face crumples from a mournful calm to overt despair. She cups her hand behind his head, slender fingers skimming through his hair, "My child. The world is not always fair." Her voice is clogged with pain.

He cannot hear this. He refuses. He will not listen. He will not. _He will not. _

"There were no leads?" The inquiry cuts at his throat, jagged. "More people were convicted. It wasn't just the caregivers," Thor wracks his brain for memories, but it's difficult, with a taste like vinegar searing his tongue and a blazing heat drilling into his skull, "There were other names. Big ones. It was all over the news. I remember…even though I was small… There was a company."

Frigga strokes his hair. "Thor, it does not do to –"

"And a doctor. A mad scientist. Fandral told me."

His mother closes her eyes. "He was not mad. He was young and eccentric, and the science world shunned him. He was an easy target for the media. His name was Bruce Banner. They never found any evidence."

Thor's heart thuds in his chest. Why is this happening to him? His blood rushes around his brain, too fast, too fast.

"And the company?"

Frigga squeezes a strand of golden hair. "Stark Industries –"

"Stark!" Thor barks, forcing himself to his feet, pacing through the wreckage, kicking at cherry-wood and splintered portraits and expensive slivers of a television screen. His legs go around and around the remnants of the table, and his blood rushes around and around his brain, dyeing his thoughts red. "Yes! I remember! They found Stark equipment in the warehouse, where Laufeyson was found. How could they get away with that?"

"Because they were robbed. Howard Stark reported a theft not too long before the kidnapping."

Around and around the table, his legs move. Around and around his skull, the blood rushes.

"And they believed him?"

"There was proof, child. You can look it up, if you wish."

"Howard Stark's son is a disgrace," Thor snarls, bulldozing past his mother's comments, full of burning embers; everything burns to ashes in front of him; he cannot see, he cannot breathe, he cannot think; he gropes blindly in a red darkness, "Running around with a different woman every night. He has no respect for anyone. It's surprising he doesn't run Stark Industries into the ground – and yet he thinks he's so grand – all because of his robots –"

"Thor," Frigga intones, calmly, "It's not Tony Stark's fault that you feel this way."

His vision explodes in a stutter of crimson sparks; blackness crinkles at the edges of the room, blurring everything.

"I don't feel –" he sputters, "It has nothing to – I only meant –"

His mother sweeps to her feet, her linen pants a rustle of fine fabric as she moves towards him. She places her cool hands on his face, attempting to soothe away his fevered mood. But Thor only feels shame, thick, foreign, tarry, swarming him once more. He's Thor Odinson. He shouldn't be like this. Not ever.

"Thor. I would feel ashamed of myself if my son saw something so grim and felt nothing."

But Thor feels nothing right now. Only a deep hollowness, and a strange, subtle ache, buried somewhere below his heart.

"His therapist told me no one loves him."

His mother's hands do not leave his face. "That doesn't mean that someone won't ever. One day."

Green eyes, like jade, but they are fractured. Black hair, like liquid smoke, curling and twisting around a porcelain face, but the face itself is gaunt, lifeless, wraithlike. Thin fingers, clutching at gray blankets. The breath hissing through his teeth as he turns: _"No one asked you to." _

There are stones in Thor's throat, lodged in his vocal chords. His voice grates past them.

"How? ..._Who? _Who could possibly love him?"

Frigga smiles lightly. She smoothes her fingers over his collar in a matronly way.

"Perhaps you will."

Thor jolts, nearly jumps out of his skin.

"I – Mother – _what –?"_

Frigga laughs, a soft, polite thing, dimmed by the gravity of the conversation, but there nonetheless.

"Oh, men are so silly. There is more than one way to love someone, my child. You could be his friend."

Heat crawls over Thor's face. He remembers words. _You're a drunkard – you're spoiled – arrogant. _A bitter taste slicks at the back of his throat. He cannot bring himself to smile.

"I somehow doubt that, Mother."

The woman sighs, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. "I have no doubt you will do the right thing."

The right thing. Thor thinks about Alvin, jittering over the phone. He thinks about reporters and statements and Laufeyson's pale mouth, curving like a dagger. He thinks about the lack of gratitude, and the offensive things that came pouring from a bloodless man; and then Gajra's somber face, saying none of this is new. He thinks about how he owes Laufeyson nothing, not guilt or sorrow or friendship. And then he thinks about someone delicate and half-dying, lying limp on a stretcher, tethered to a strange web of medical apparatus, barely alive, barely alive. So fragile. So slight. So breakable.

How could he possibly know what the right thing was?

Nothing seems right, not when it's about Loki Laufeyson.

He does not know how to tell his mother this. He does not entirely believe he should. He had not expected her to respond this way – (he imagined tears and gasps and frenzied attempts to drag him to his parent's place; not this poised and collected queen) – but there's something incredibly uncomfortable about admitting how confused Laufeyson makes him. Even to his mother.

Frigga surveys her son worriedly, fussing over his great lion's mane of hair.

"You know," she begins carefully, but somehow peacefully, "I met Loki, once, as a child."

A little arc of shock crackles in his core and splinters, ice-cold, throughout his body, biting at his fingertips and nipping at his throat. Why should this affect him so?

"You did?" Why does his voice sound so hoarse? It runs ragged on the air. "When? How?"

"Your father used to visit the orphanage, remember? I came with him sometimes."

"What was he like?"

The moment stretches heavy and leaden between them, full of ghosts.

"He gave me a flower."

* * *

_That night, Thor dreams wretched dreams._

There's a little boy made out of porcelain, and he walks down a cold dark lane, carrying roses. There are things on the lane: they skitter and shriek and scuffle in the shadows, gibbering high strange words and watching with blind milk eyes. They hunger. Thor watches them from somewhere nearby, utterly still; he cannot move. He cannot move and he cannot speak. He feels insubstantial, like wisp and smoke, a part of the darkness floating down everywhere. He does not know why he is here. He knows nothing about this child; he knows nothing about the things simpering on the road. They mean nothing to him.

The boy's flesh is soft and sweet and vulnerable, and his blood is redder than the roses he carries.

The things twist and writhe and crawl towards him, half-starved and rotting, not alive. Thor does not know what they are, but he fears them, in some acute, instinctual way.

_(but that isn't right. Thor Odinson does not fear)_

– Thor fears for the boy, small, fine-boned, delicate. Wind strokes its dusky fingers his hair; nighttime kisses his cool child-lips. He is going to die. Thor knows it, and it's a stone in his stomach, chill and poisonous and heavy. The boy will die. He walks down the cobbled path, his steps neat and deliberate, the feather-light hair curling at his chin, the flowers wilting in his arms, and doesn't he know he's going to die? What's he doing out here, on this night wreathed in shadows, at this desolate hour, on this ruined road?

His blood is redder than the roses he carries, but his eyes are green.

Thor needs to warn him. Perhaps that is his purpose; perhaps that's why he's here. But doesn't the boy see them? Doesn't he _hear _them? They pant after him, they babble in keen, inhuman voices; they drag themselves toward him. But still the little child walks, determinedly, his china mouth set and his green eyes fixed ahead. Where is he going?

No where, no where.

Thor must warn him. He wrestles against the darkness, against the prison-walls of his body. Why can't he move? Why can't he speak? He must warn him. They stretch out rusted claws; they decay; they hunger. Thor must warn him. It is his duty. It is his purpose. He needs to – What was that sound? Quick breath on the air, ragged, shallow, breathing, but the little boy does not scream. He's still alive. He simply runs now. They have not yet eaten his heart. There's time – warn him! Warn him. Warn him. _Warn –!_

_Hello, sir. Would you like a flower? _

He cannot speak.

Hello, sir. Would you like a flower? The voice repeats, and when Thor opens his eyes (when did they shut?), he sees a man before him. Where is the child? Where has he gone? Did Thor warn him? Did he live? He cannot see; the man blocks his way. And there is something uncanny about this person. He's sunken and beautiful, and uncomfortably familiar. Exhaustion rubs his eyelids pink, pallor clings like a death-shroud to his face; but his gaze shines like sea glass and his mouth is deliciously pretty. He carries a bouquet of roses, but they are gray, and dust, and crumbling.

Thor cannot be around this man, with his sea glass eyes and pretty mouth. He wants to touch those lips, but he knows it's forbidden. He cannot be near him.

Where is the child? He asks, he needs to know.

The man smiles a razorblade smile.

Where is the child? Thor repeats. Is he alive? Is he alive?

Red blossoms like a ring of rose petals on the man's chest. It is beautiful, it is grotesque. His fingers stroke the dead flowers, and they crumble at his caress and fall away away away. Into nothing. No where. Endless, endless. Go away go away go away. Hello, sir. Would you like a flower?

No. Thor wouldn't. What he wants is forbidden.

_Did he live? Did he live? _

If you touch that mouth (no matter how pretty), you die.

Hello,

Sir.

Would you like,

a flower?

But Thor does not want one.

So the man hands him his heart instead. It's still warm with blood.

_When Thor wakes, he remembers nothing._

* * *

"Well, don't you look absolutely spiffing."

Thor glares irritably over the bread dish. Lurid morning light washes through the open windows, painting the tabletop a butter-yellow. The color burns his eyes. Actually, everything burns his eyes: they itch with the aftereffects of troubled dreams. He had not slept well last night, and the knowledge bothers him.

_A week. A week since I found Loki Laufeyson. Two days and…_

His head is filled with an aching fog.

Is the man cursed? Why won't he leave Thor alone? What has he done to deserve this unbearable haunting?

"This is not amusing, Fandral."

But his friend only laughs, leaning back against the booth in unaffected mirth. They are in a diner: a bright, bustling place full of linoleum floors and plastic seats. The rule has always been to meet in causal, relatively unimpressive environments; it's supposed to make for less publicity.

But two men, a woman walking her dog, a father and his boy, and a giggling schoolgirl have already accosted Thor for his autograph. He endured ten minutes apiece of strained smiles and empty conversation and "Good luck at the Super Bowl," and, "I'm sure the Thunderers will win," and "Thank you, thank you, thank you –"

"That's what you get," Fandral says now, "For being the star of the team."

Thor grunts. "I don't mind," he mutters unconvincingly. Fandral laughs again.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him. He used to like people. He enjoyed their nervous excitement, their whispered entreaties about whether they should approach him or not; their huge, shining eyes when he signed their belongings or simply nodded to them as he passed them on the street. He does not know where that pleasure has gone; it feels dead inside him. Laufeyson has gotten into Thor like a poison, corrupting everything.

Guilt squeezes him.

_It's not Laufeyson's fault. But it's not my fault he's unhappy. And he's safe now; Gajra said he's being taken care of. He won't hear about the YouTube video in rehab…and it'll be off by the time he gets out. Actually, it's probably already off; Al will have made sure of it. So there's nothing to worry about. _

_ I can forget about him. _

_ I can forget… _

But could Thor forget?

Does he want to?

"Thor…Thor? Hello?" Fandral snaps his fingers before Thor's blind eyes, interrupting an already tired, overplayed mantra, "Why do I feel like you aren't listening to a word I'm saying?"

Thor blinks. "What?"

Some of the rosy cheer in Fandral's face dims. "Are you alright?"

Every thought drips like molasses, slow, slow, painful. He stares at his friend and for a moment does not recognize him.

"I'm fine."

Thor has not once mentioned Laufeyson, and none of his friends (not even Sif), have elected to ask about him. The relief is so intense, it's almost aching. He does not want to ruin that reprieve now: Laufeyson would just have to hang there, like some sort of bloody shade, between them. He refuses to let the man's name so much as pass his lips.

_It's over, over, over. _

Fandral shifts awkwardly in his seat. "Listen –"

But there's the tinkle of a bell, the clatter of a door shutting, and a chorus of footfalls thudding towards them. Thor turns, grateful for the break in conversation, for an excuse to avoid Fandral's probing eyes. He sees Volstagg wedge his enormous bulk through a narrow maze of tables; Hogun shadowing his motions with a careful, guarded step – they both look so ordinary. Thor has to swallow back the strange feeling in his throat. They appear so normal – Volstagg with that huge, reddish beard bristling around his lips, Hogun as tall and silent as a specter; and Fandral sitting across from him, full of a boyhood that never died – they're so permanent, so constant, so unchanging. _So good. _The sensation in his throat intensifies; it's like a pack of thumbtacks stuck in his vocal chords. He cannot imagine how these people could coexist with a man who slit his wrists in a hotel bathroom.

"Thor! Fandral!" Volstagg chortles, "But what's this? Where's Sif? Isn't she usually the first here?"

Fandral shrugs his shoulders loosely, "There's trouble at the office, apparently. She's there overtime; she'll be here eventually."

"Ah," Volstagg drops down next to Thor with an unsettling _thump, _"The life of a police officer. Never free as long as the streets are busy, eh?" He reaches for the bread dish, scattering crumbs as he does so, "I've never known you to be so quiet, Thor. Taking cues from Hogun?"

The Asian man slides into the booth besides Fandral, passing Thor a curt nod and a brief smile.

Thor laughs softly, almost himself. His fingers close impulsively around his glass of water. He stares into it, watching the way the ice cubes catch and mirror his image – a broad, solemn face with a fringe of blonde hair. He doesn't look like himself. Not at all.

He wishes he could order a scotch, but it's early, and Alvin always warned him against drinking too early in public.

"I'm sorry, my friends. I did not sleep well last night."

"I could tell," Fandral comments drily, but there's a roguishness in his voice, "What's on your mind?"

Thor looks up from his blurry reflection. "What do you mean? You all invited me here."

"To ask you what's on your mind," Volstagg wheedles, buttering his third biscuit.

Heat presses itself against Thor's neck. His fingers clench still tighter on his cup. He knows what this is about, suddenly. And he had been foolish enough to think he could avoid it.

"I don't know what Sif told you," he rumbles, "But there's nothing to talk about."

"Sif didn't say anything," Fandral begins, peaceably enough, but he does not have a chance to continue; Thor thunders over him –

"So you read the newspapers, then. Or you saw the video –"

"Thor!" Volstagg gags, spraying bread and butter as he sputters into speech, "You're jumping to conclusions. We just –"

But his words reel away from Thor, scattered and diminished by the roaring in his ears. How pathetic did they think him? Look how their gazes fall so tentative over him, egg-shell gazes: as though he would shatter under the weight of their combined pity. Do they honestly believe they could lure him out here for some sort of makeshift therapy session? Do they honestly think he _needs _it? The heat at his neck feels like burning coals; it stings and blisters at his pride, peeling it away to expose something raw and sore and pulsing underneath. They treat him like he's vulnerable – like he's _weak. _Do they think he couldn't handle it? That _he_, Thor Odinson, could not handle one slight man, small and breakable, one unhappy stranger? Do they think he swooned at the sight of the blood – the body? Or that he sits home all day now – soft – and cries? Do they think him a child that hides under his covers, cowering for fear of monsters?

Do they – do they –?

"I did not expect my friends to ridicule me," he snarls.

"Neither did I," Hogun answers, plainly.

The strangeness of the incident makes Thor pause. Hogun rarely speaks, and when he does, he endows each word with meaning. Thor's gaze swivels to him, a pressure still mounting in his skull.

"What do you mean?"

Hogun folds his hands on the tabletop. "Your friends show you concern, and you scorn them for it."

His throat tightens. "There's nothing to be concerned about!"

"Is there?" Fandral presses, leaning forward in uncharacteristic seriousness, "No one's heard from you in a week. You aren't answering any calls. You won't leave your house. Coach's afraid you won't show up for practice; Alvin says you're furious –"

"Coach – what?" Thor starts, gripping the table's edge. The world spins around him, too fast, too fast. "Why wouldn't I show up for practice? And when did you talk to Al?"

"He wanted to know if you spoke to any of us," Volstagg relents gently, "He said you were…frustrated."

"I _was _frustrated," Thor snaps, but then he remembers his living room, and a new feeling besieges him – unease. He has trashed rooms before, of course, but usually he's a lot drunker, and it's never been for such an elusive reason. He still can't exactly pinpoint what made him so angry yesterday. "I…" he flounders in this strange territory, this alien discomfort, "Al was being unreasonable. So is the press. They're blowing this matter out of proportion. It's a private thing; that's all. And it's over now. Why does everyone want to dwell on it?"

Fandral bobs his head in agreement, but Volstagg gives a massive sigh and says –

"Laufeyson is pretty infamous."

Laufeyson, with his razorblade smile, with his green eyes and silk skin.

Why can't he just leave Thor alone?

"…this has nothing to do with him," he mumbles, lowly. His head throbs. He really wants that scotch now.

"It doesn't," Fandral assures him, a little too quickly. But Thor's father hovers unspoken between them all, his connection to The Asgard Orphanage implicit. Pain worms its way through his skull. It's not Odin's fault Laufeyson was kidnapped. His mother told him that much. Still, his friend shifts in his seat, takes a swig of water, and continues, "Listen, Thor. I honestly don't care about Laufeyson –"

_Ah. _A little voice curls cruelly in Thor's mind, _But that's the problem, isn't it? Nobody cares about Laufeyson. _

His insides twist a bit.

"– but the Super Bowl's next month. We need you focused. You're the star, remember? Our quarterback. We won't win without you. We need to know you're focused."

The Super Bowl. Thor feels suddenly drained. Had he truly almost forgotten about one of the most important games in his career? And when fans just brought it up to him? The idea is eerie, disturbing. How could Laufeyson have that effect on him?

_How did he get you to ruin your living room? _

But it wasn't him. It was Al. It was –

"I _am _focused," Thor asserts, and he tries to imbue it with truth, "I swear to you. I'm not going to let my teammates down at a moment like this. The Thunderers will win this year, my friends."

Volstagg slaps him on the shoulder, laughing merrily.

"I knew we could count on you, Odinson!"

And with that, the bitter spell breaks: a babble of conversation spills out onto the breakfast table. Thor talks about tactics, he talks about their opponents' weaknesses, he talks about the practices he will certainly be attending – but he does not talk about what lurks, unbidden, in the corners of his mind.

Thor misjudged his companions. He assumed they thought him scarred – traumatized by lotus flowers of blood, by running water in the dark, by a body on the floor. But the morbidity does not affect him. They were merely alarmed he would not play well next month. They were simply alarmed he wouldn't play well next month. That somehow, the publicity would tire him out, and he would not compete with his usual stamina. He knows his teammates – his _friends – _love him beyond his skills: they have accompanied him through childhood, and never has there been such loyal hearts, such dedicated spirits. No. It's not lack of concern that leads them to this carefree behavior; it's assumption. They do not assume him disturbed. They assume him aggravated. Laufeyson's suicide attempt is terrible, no doubt, but it's also an inconvenience – the sort of inconvenience that translates into sticky interviews and an onslaught of unpopular opinion. It's the paparazzi keeping Thor up all night, not the bloodstained memories.

Well – isn't this what he wants? Was he not just offended at the mere idea of their pity? Did he not just condemn them of ridicule?

But their smiles flash like beacons of light against mirrors, and Thor feels…unsettled. While they smile, Laufeyson sits somewhere, his wrists bandaged, alone. And no one thinks of him.

No one.

Except Thor.

_They were not there, _Thor thinks fervently, _They were not there; they did not see it; they did not see him – _

But these notions still plague him when the waitress takes their order; when the food appears; when Fandral dares Volstagg to eat half his weight in sausage; when Volstagg succeeds; when a crowd of timid onlookers approach them, asking for autographs; when the waitress returns with a check and a request ("Can I have your number?"); when Thor politely denies her ("My agent never lets me date near the Super Bowl –" Haha, haha); when Volstagg remarks how odd it is for Thor to let a pretty woman go (when Fandral remarks how unfair it is that Thor receives all the pretty women); when Hogun observes, quietly, that Sif never made it to breakfast.

"They're must be a lot of trouble at the office," Thor comments distractedly.

"New York's gone to hell," Fandral says with a shrug, "It's too bad Sif has to deal with it."

When they step outside, a gaggle of reporters converge on Thor, screaming inquiries: "Laufeyson!" "Warehouse Kid!" and "Super Bowl!" among them.

_Sif is not the only one dealing with hell, _he thinks, and shoves mulishly past them.

* * *

That night, Thor dreams about children screaming.

* * *

He does not leave his house the next day. He does not answer any telephone calls.

He does not feel normal.

* * *

After a third night of nightmares, Thor does an internet search.

He's stooped in his armchair, the sleek little laptop perched on his knees. It's very early, and tiredness scratches at his eyeballs, even as dawn rubs the sky outside pink. He does not notice it. He does not notice the way the rising sun throws a kaleidoscope of orange and red and yellow against the sitting room walls. He does not hear the faint twitter of birdsong drift in through the open window. He does not acknowledge anything.

Thor's fingers tap awkwardly against the keys.

Should he really do this?

There's an open bottle on the side-table: he gropes for it blindly, his eyes still fixed on the screen. He does not know what this will accomplish. Likely, it will only make things worse. But it's like falling down a dark hole, and Thor can't see the top or the bottom: he doesn't remember when he started falling, but he doesn't think he could stop now.

The alcohol burns his throat. Thor's glad for the warmth. In this early morning light, he feels chill.

His fingers hover, then dash across the keyboard:

_Loki Laufeyson. _

Google is saturated with Laufeyson. He's everywhere: in digitized newspaper articles, in old court case records, in forums and blogs and Wikipedia pages. There are whole websites dedicated to the Asgard Kidnapping Case, their themes ranging from political to ethical to "purely informative" to downright conspiratorial. Even YouTube videos: not of Laufeyson, of course, but filmed bits of Bruce Banner's trial (is it even legal to have that up?) and the memorial at Asgard Orphanage, where celebrities and political figures and the general public thronged together to mourn and remember and vow that this sort of thing would never happened again. His parents had been there, Thor remembers. They had not wanted him to attend it, they had proclaimed him too young, but he distinctly recalls his mother dressing in sable and whispering goodbye.

How could he have forgotten that?

And when Gajra mentioned her client – why hadn't Thor recognized his name immediately? Other people would have, and they did not have fathers who sponsored the orphanage Laufeyson grew up in. Was the Case that unimportant to him? Eleven children dead, one…brutalized beyond measure, and Thor barely recalled it. Is it that trivial – that insignificant?

His stomach curdles in disappointment.

_No…no. It's not my fault. I was young; I didn't know; no one told me. _

Yes. His parents had shielded him from it.

Just one brief conversation, his mother tucking his comforter around him and telling him that bad things happen, sometimes, to people who don't deserve it, and how she would never let anything like that happen to him, and how he should keep the other boy in his heart. That was it. Not even his friends had brought it up.

Certainly, he was young. Too young.

But he's a grown man now. How could his father not mention this to him? Shouldn't Thor know about these sorts of things? Especially when they link so directly, so inextricably, with the Odinson family name? There's a clip on YouTube of Odin speaking to a weeping crowd about pain and unfairness and responsibility and recuperation and life. He talks about Loki Laufeyson to these people, these strangers, but he refuses to address the matter with his own son. A son he expects to take over Asgard Enterprises when he retires; a son he expresses pride in on a daily basis. His firstborn. His only.

_Why didn't father tell me? _

A vague anger clouds him. Well, he knows now. Whether he wants to or not.

The Wikipedia page is like an autopsy: it dissects and labels every aspect of Laufeyson's life not protected by privacy laws. It's horrible. Thor wants to click out of it, he wants to close the laptop and walk away, but the words throw themselves at his eyes, pinning him to the screen. **PARENTAGE**, **EARLY LIFE** and **ASGARD KIDNAPPING CASE **only reiterate what he already knows, but **RECUSE **and **AFTERWARDS **snag his guilty, unwilling gaze –

_After a year and a half of searching,_ the article states somewhat blandly, _investigators declared the missing children dead. However, Steve Rogers _(the name in blue; Rogers also has a Wikipedia page, it seems), _a close friend of SWAT team member James "Bucky" Barnes, was particularly affected by the case. When he heard the announcement to cease searching, he condemned authorities for "…failing to protect America's most vulnerable" and continued looking on his own. Whether Barnes assisted him or not remains unclear, but Rogers was alone when he discovered Laufeyson in the abandoned warehouse. Although originally from Brooklyn, Rogers had relocated to Oregon, and was convinced the kidnappers had taken the orphans somewhere nearby. His hypothesis was correct. After driving through the most desolate parts of the state, he uncovered the mutilated child hiding beneath the corpses of the other orphans. Rogers refused to give commentary about the experience._

_However, he presumably persuaded Laufeyson to accompany him to the closest neighborhood (an unnamed settlement) and called Barnes on a payphone. Authorities immediately arrived on the scene (an entire SWAT team responded to the call, despite Rogers' assurance that the kidnappers had evacuated the warehouse) and Laufeyson was instantly hospitalized at Blue Mountain Hospital. He was later moved to Mountain View Hospital in Central Oregon due to the need for specialized care. Rogers reportedly visited him in both establishments several times. _

_He refused to accept any medals for his conduct, claiming "there couldn't be justice" until the criminals were put on charges and "…children were safe again." Although he continued to search for the perpetrators, Rogers mysteriously vanished two months after Laufeyson's rescue. Barnes personally conducted his search party and no trace of him was ever found. His disappearance has been the topics of many debates and conspiracies, most arguing that Laufeyson's kidnappers abducted him to protect themselves._

The next section is sparse. Laufeyson clearly tried as hard as he could to keep people from knowing much about his current life. The article regurgitates a slew of hospitals and mental institutions (though not all their names are mentioned), as well as the court cases he was forced to attend. It then makes dutiful note of the ethical issues Laufeyson's situation stirred: _Is it right to medicate a child so young? Should he be institutionalized? Who has the authority to make these decisions?_

The last sentence is abrupt and somehow biting in its normalcy.

_Laufeyson currently works as a pianist in downtown Brooklyn. _

Thor shuts the laptop. His head spins. Steve Rogers. He does not even remember the name, not the way he remembers Banner and Stark Industries. The man was a hero, and now his existence fades to a tab on the internet and an unresolved police case. Never found. Not only did the kidnappers escape – they took Rogers with them.

And…Laufeyson_ –_

_he uncovered the mutilated child hiding beneath the corpses of the other orphans _

Suddenly, Thor thinks he might vomit. There's the sour tang of alcohol in his throat, rushing up from the churning pit in his stomach. He sees Laufeyson, lolling against gray-white pillows, his hair like a raven halo, the IV twisting like a ribbon around his bleached-bone wrist. _The mutilated child. _His smile is like a knife, his every word like a thorn, but his skin must be soft, so soft, and breakable – _Hiding. _So much blood could not possibly have come from him. So small, so slight, a fragile man made of glass and porcelain. He could not have so much blood in him. Had Rogers thought the same? _Beneath the corpses. _No one loves him. Gajra said so. No one wants him. Thor feels a flame lapping at his chest, burning away the nausea. He welcomes it; it's better than this strange, lightless, bitter vortex he has been descending into for day. Everything about Laufeyson – yes, everything – is poison. His heritage, his childhood, his life – it all falls around him like a ring of ashes, dead, dead. Even Rogers, who supposedly saved him – gone, and most certainly dead. _Of the other orphans. _No one, no one, no one. He has no one. There had been no point in rescuing him; look at where he lies now, years later; sick and alone and bloodless on a hospital bed, with no one but a government-mandated therapist and a few paltry words. So cold. He must be so cold to touch; no one has ever touched him before. No one ever would – _He would have been better off not being saved. He would have been better off dying like the others – _

Wait.

Stop, stop.

Did he really just think that?

_No, no, no. _

That was not what he meant. That was not –

Thor does not know what to do with himself. He's lost in his own body, drowning in his own thoughts. Why can't he turn his mind off? Why can't he silence the roaring in his ears? Enough, enough. But he has never been so sick – he has never been so _furious – _

And then there's a tinkle and a crash and Thor realizes he's broken something again.

_I can't take this._ Thor wrestles with the rage and the nausea and an inexplicable tension. _I can't – NO – I _won't _take this anymore. I am Thor Odinson. I refuse to just sit here, and mourn, and ruin my home. I refuse to do nothing. _

_I am Thor Odinson. _

_I will…I will take action. _

But he doesn't know how.

* * *

Later that day, Thor calls Gajra Hansini.

He still has her number from their encounter in the hospital. It lies innocently enough on his dining room table, and he swipes it up irritably, staring at the printed numerals. She had told him to use the second number, the privatized one, when she first handed him her business card. Would she answer him if he dialed that same number now?

He must try. The woman is his most direct link to Laufeyson, and Laufeyson is then nexus of these strange moods: Thor needs to get at Loki Laufeyson if he wants to end this.

The phone only rings once before she answers.

"Thor?" Gajra sounds mildly perplexed, but not at all astounded.

And suddenly Thor's throat is stuck. What does he think he's doing – calling her? This is about as foolish as visiting Laufeyson in the hospital. What could this possibly accomplish?

_You are Thor Odinson. You do not waver. You do not falter. _

"I cannot take this," the words fall from his mouth before he can rein them in, "I can't. I won't." His mouth tastes of fire and smoke.

There's a protracted pause on the other side. "Thor…why are you calling me?"

Thor feels a sharp pinch of annoyance. Pushy. Gajra knows exactly what he's calling about; she intends to drag it out of him.

"Laufeyson. I can't take him. I can't take _this. _I can't – how is he?" Thor does not realize how much he needs to know until the inquiry spills out of him. There's a wound in his chest, an aching space that must be filled with the answer, "How is he doing? Is he getting better? Is he safe? Is he –?" He cuts off, choked. What's wrong with him?

"You haven't been following my advice, have you?" Gajra says quietly on the other end, "You haven't been living your own life."

"He's making it difficult," Thor spits through gritted teeth. He can't tell if the pressure squeezing his lungs is shame or anger. He opts for anger, balling his hand into a fist. "It's not my fault –"

"I'm not accusing you of anything," the therapist answers calmly, "It's okay, Thor –"

"It's _not _okay, Gajra!" he booms into the receiver, and suddenly the world around him has gone red, and there's a terrible pounding in his skull; something is trying to split it open; he cannot think, "I can't sleep! I can't concentrate! I can't even eat – and I can't drop weight before the Super Bowl – What have I done to deserve this? What did _I _do to –?"

"Nothing," Gajra supplies. "You did nothing."

"Then why is this happening to me?"

There's a breath's pause. "Because you care."

"What?"

"You care. About Loki. You're a good person, and you're upset that he tried to hurt himself."

Thor gropes for a chair and steers himself almost blindly into it, still gripping the phone. He feels exhausted, ragged. A strange sensation clots his throat. _He tried to hurt himself. _Why did she have to word it that way? It sounds so…vulnerable.

"I am not a sensitive person, Gajra," he tries to say it with conviction.

She sighs. "There's nothing wrong with being sensitive, Thor –"

"I'm _not –"_

"– but even if you _aren't_ sensitive, it wouldn't be normal for you to be unaffected. Do you think anyone could walk in on a suicide attempt and be fine the next day? It's natural that you feel this way. It's completely natural."

Does she talk to Laufeyson this way? Does she tell him his death-cravings are natural for a little boy who hid himself in the rot of his murdered companions?

_oh God, oh God _

His free hand clutches the arm of his seat.

"How do people make it stop?" Thor asks, and his voice sounds low, scraping at his vocal chords. It's raw, and exposed, and he despises it.

"There are lots of ways," Gajra says smoothly, "Talking is one of them. Being proactive is another. I know the suicide bothers you. But can you be specific – what's plaguing you, Thor? Guilt? Shock?"

_No one loves him. No one wants him. _

"People just don't do things like that."

Thor watches his knuckles turning white, almost distractedly. Gajra seems to evaluate his answer on the other end. This is not what he called her for. He doesn't need a therapy session. He needs to talk about Laufeyson – he needs to find out –

But what does he need to find out?

"Okay," Gajra responds delicately, "This is your first encounter with suicide–"

Hot panic seizes him. "That doesn't matter –" he begins, but she steamrolls over his comment.

"You've never had to deal with anything like this before. It's confusing. Especially coming from your position. Is it fair to say you live a relatively happy life?"

Why is she so pushy? He did not call to talk about himself.

"My life is perfect."

_"Perfect? _ Is that so?"

She places peculiar stress on the word. Thor does not understand why she should puzzle over it so.

"Yes," he replies hurriedly, "Gajra, I'm not your patient. I just want to know –"

"–You asked me how to relieve your stress. You have to spend some time with yourself if you want to find the answer, Thor," she pauses, as if reflecting, "Why don't you try being proactive? You sound like you're guilty; you're shocked other people aren't as satisfied with their lives as you are with yours. But it's not your fault. And with your financial and social standing – you have the power to make a difference in people's lives. If you are unhappy with the state of the world, try to change it. You're a public figure. Start charities. Raise awareness. Meet people –"

Her words wash over him. They sting him. He thinks about Steve Rogers, championing the cause of lost children; he thinks about his mother, her cool hands on his face, talking about a little boy who gave her a flower – and he thinks about Laufeyson, razorblade smiles and green eyes, soft skin.

_No one loves him. No one wants him. _

"But…I want…" Humiliation throttles his throat. For a moment, he can barely speak. Then, "…I want to make a particular difference. In a particular person's life."

Gajra is utterly silent.

"I want…" Thor flounders, drowns, resurfaces. What is he doing? What is he saying? "It was my father's orphanage, and what happened was…horrible, and I need to… I need to speak with him and…know him," Every word is a surprise, and yet the moment they leave his lips, they become sacred. They become true. What does this mean? "…please, Gajra. I need to fix this. I must. I don't know why I feel this way. Maybe because it was my father's orphanage – but I need too. I need to see him again."

Has Gajra hung up? Why is she so quiet – so desolately quiet? Has he done something wrong? Thor thinks he must be made of air; he can't feel himself at all – he's floating, floating – even his embarrassment falls away beneath him. He's too shocked at his revelation to feel anything at all.

"Thor," Gajra breathes, finally, "You want to get involved with Loki?"

_No one loves him. _

His mother's words. _Perhaps you will. _

"I'm not expecting to be his friend," Thor swallows, Laufeyson's bitterness, his ungrateful words, cutting: _You're drunkard – spoiled – arrogant._ "I don't even think I like him. But I…need to help him anyway. Or I won't sleep."

There's another weighty pause.

"Oh, Thor," Gajra says. She sounds almost emotional. "No one has ever willingly decided to help Loki before."

He does not know how to respond to this. Are therapists supposed to be this blunt?

"…what does that mean?"

Gajra laughs, disbelieving. "Thor…I – I – I'm thrilled, but I have to warn you. Loki…he…he's not easy. You saw him. You don't have to do this. Regardless of what you think, Loki is not your responsibility, no matter what orphanage he came from."

But there's steel in his bones, lightning in his blood. He's Thor Odinson, after all, and he must have been a warrior in a past life, because he rushes forward now, like a man in battle.

"I am Thor Odinson. I can handle it."

* * *

**A/N:** Oh dear, Thor. You obviously do not know Loki at all. I seriously doubt you can handle it.

Hopefully, I can get the next chapter out faster, but I can't make any promises!


	6. Chapter Five: Diagnosis

**A/N: **Okay, before I say anything, I just want to give a big THANK YOU to everyone who has read/is continuing to read this story, especially given my sporadic updating (or lack of updating) schedule. I really, really appreciate all your encouragement and opinions and I feel so blessed to have such wonderful readers who actually take the time to look into what I write.

Otherwise, /laughs awkwardly/, I...uh...bet you all guessed I had given up on this story? Again? I don't blame you. Truly, I don't. I'm so sorry for the ridiculously long wait here - if, indeed, anyone is going to continue reading this - I really wish I had more time to write this and I could write at a faster pace. But, unfortunately, this is not the case. I can only say that, although I am super, super busy, I will continue writing in this when I can because I'm truly enjoying writing it, I truly love Loki and Thor, and I truly love hearing from you.

I will try to update faster, but I can make no promises. T.T I wish I could, but I can't.

I apologize for any errors. I'm posting this very late and, although I've looked it over, some of these bits were written like last month - and I don't have time to scrutinize it right now. If it's truly unreadable, I'll always take it down, fix it up, and repost it!

**PLEASE REMEMBER: **

**(1) The beginning of every Loki chapter begins with a flashback. The flashback is purposely in past tense, whereas the current-day plot is in present tense. **

**(2) The 'universe' I've constructed here is a sort of "alternate" Brooklyn/NYC. It's meant to be grimmer. What I write here does not reflect actual Brooklyn or true rehab centers, etc, etc. **

Now, if anyone's still reading, please enjoy!

* * *

"_Cunning creatures,_

_slither forth and _

_slither back. _

_Double-dealers, _

_double up for _

_the attack."_

"Beautiful Creature," _The Devil's Carnival _

**Chapter Five**

**Diagnosis **

Three murders and the social workers came to take Loki away.

Snow covered the blood on Brooklyn's streets.

"Are you sure?" Ms. Spynes said into the receiver. She stood in her nightgown and slippers, her wiry hair knotted up in a bun. It was very chill that morning, and her every word frosted on the air, "He's the devil, that one. Honest. He's the devil incarnate."

Loki watched as the cold turned her comments into mist. _Devil._ The name left her lips in a cloud of white, dissipated into the colorless kitchen. _Devil incarnate_. That was all those words were; opaque breath on an iron-winter's day; they would curl and shiver and melt into nothingness. They didn't hurt him. They didn't hurt him at all.

"…no, no! I want him gone. Oh, God, I want him gone. I'm just saying –"

The kitchen was dull and chilly. The entire world was swathed in gray. There was a single plate on the table, and a single crust of bread on the plate, looking about as dull and chilly and gray as everything else. Loki wanted it desperately, but he did not dare touch it. The cold made his bruises sting.

"Asgard?" The woman spluttered. "Impossible! There's no way –"

Loki pulled his legs up onto his chair, crossing them beneath him. His toes felt like they were incased in ice: he wore nothing but the long, faded night-shirt that Ms. Spynes doled out to all the children, a ragged thing that fell in roomy folds around their rail-thin bodies. It was barely enough to keep them warm in their narrow attic room, where the orphans slept on patched-up pillows and scratchy quilts. Here, in the kitchen, it was practically unbearable – everyone knew the kitchen received the least heating, and now with the window over the counter broken, it was a verifiable freezer.

Freezers. That was how the police found out about Jotunheim's last three murders.

Body parts in freezers.

"Are you sure?" Ms. Spynes kept shrieking into the phone. _"Odinson? _Really?"

Loki forced himself to imagine it. A troop of hard-bitten, blue-suited officers, crunching over ice and snow and barging into a splintery little butcher shop (at least, that's what the newspaper had said – an anonymous tip about a butcher shop). In his child's mind, he pictured it a cramped, ramshackle place, full of the smell of rotting meat. There would be knives hanging like rusted smiles from the ceiling, and animal heads lined up like dolls on the countertops, and human body parts hidden like secrets in the fridge. Loki knew Jotunheim to be a dismal, ugly group of people (in the newspapers, or on the tiny, flickering headset the orphans sometimes crowded around, the convicted Jotuns all had sallow, dagger-like faces, and eyes sunk deep in shadows), and so his imagined butcher shop necessarily reflected both their dismalness and ugliness. It was a spot for murders, after all.

And Loki hated the Jotuns, with as much fire as his cold little heart could muster.

The wind whistled shrilly through the broken windowpanes. Loki curled further into himself, tucking his toes beneath his long shirt, watching the snow breathe blue-white roses on the glass. Why did Ms. Spynes want him here? Obviously, he was leaving – that much was clear. Whenever Jotunheim killed, he was asked to leave. He didn't need to hear his foster parent discuss it over the phone; he didn't need to hear her rattle on about what an ungrateful and unpleasant child he was. He already knew those things.

Would she let him eat the bread? Was that why it was out? His stomach felt like an open wound, bleeding. He had not been allowed to eat for two days straight – punishment for pouring itching powder into Rodney's bed-sheets – but if he was leaving, she might as well feed him. Right?

"It just doesn't seem possible," Ms. Spynes said waspishly into the receiver. "He doesn't deserve it."

Did he not deserve the bread either?

"…no," the woman sighed, "I'm not going to argue with him. He's an important man, and it's his decision. Anyway, I've got to get rid of the devil. Do you know he convinced one of the children to throw a rock out the window? Yes…yes…he did! He thought I wouldn't know he was behind it –"

Loki knitted his limbs tight to his body, staring through the spiderweb of cracks that was the kitchen window. Rodney had thrown the rock at it. He had meant to hit Loki (a sort of revenge for the itching-powder escapade), but his coordination was clumsy and Loki way too fast. He ducked and the rock sailed right over his head, right through the glass. There was the tinkle of something breaking and a fine gray rainfall of shards and the quick patter of footsteps that was Ms. Spynes barreling into the kitchen. One look, and she knew exactly what happened. Loki wished Rodney hadn't spent so much time blubbering about how _sorry_ he was and how he _never meant_ to do it and how Loki _made_ him and how much he _loved _her. Ms. Spynes would have come to all those conclusions anyway, and something about seeing Rodney's fat face screwed up in a sob made Loki want to hurt him. His pseudo-cries were needles in his eardrums.

Ms. Spynes had smacked him for breaking the window. It wasn't really a big deal – Loki was quite used to adults hitting him – but he hated it when they did it in front of the other children. And of course, they always did. At the sound of the ruckus, all the orphans came romping down the stairs, chittering and shrieking like monkeys, and they all crooned their laughter when Ms. Spynes' hand flew against his mouth.

_Ha ha! Ha ha! Loki's a bad boy!_ The taste of salt and copper in his mouth. _Ha ha! Ha ha! Loki got in trouble!_ The heat that smothered him from all sides, the pressing humiliation, the desire to disappear. _Ha ha! Ha ha! We're all good little boys and girls!_ _We're all good little children – not Loki, not Loki, not Loki!_ But he would show them one day. He would be tall and strong and rich, and everyone would love him, and they'd be begging for his pennies; they'd be begging for a _look, _and he'd just step over them – they'd grovel at his feet and he'd just smile and be gone. Forever. Ever. Ever.

Ms. Spynes slammed the phone down. "Did you hear that?" she barked.

"No," Loki lied. He almost always lied, especially to adults.

The woman rounded on him, her hands digging into her hips. A few wisps of hair escaped the knot on top of her head, falling in faded brown curls over her forehead. She wasn't that old, but in the winter's glare, she looked more severe than usual. Her eyes were large and dark and lamp-like, glowering like coals in a skintight face, and her lips were blue and bloodless, barely stretched over shivering teeth. Her entire body seemed to be made of points: her nose beaked sharply and her cheekbones jutted in a manner almost similar to Loki's – high and austere. Beneath the drab nightgown, her elbows peaked to narrow tips, mirroring thin and knobby knees. She reached out a hand (Loki tried not to flinch; it encouraged abuse) and rapped her fingertips against the table, a harried, irritated gesture.

"You should have been listening," she scolded.

"I'm sorry," Loki lied again. He didn't bother smiling.

Ms. Spynes looked wearied and somehow heavy. "You're leaving," she sniped, "Today. And good riddance, as far as I'm concerned. You've never been grateful. Not once."

Loki fidgeted in the near-threadbare shirt, trying not to glance at the bread on the dish before him. A sudden gust of wind caused the backyard door to clatter on its hinges; he nearly jumped at the sound of it; the cold pierced him to his core. The breeze raised the tips of his black hair, fluffing it around his skinny neck like a nest of raven's fathers.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, mechanically. What else could he say?

He could tell her that she only wanted Oliver-Twist sort of orphans, dollies with apple cheeks and candy eyes and a simpering "Please, sir, can I have some more?" falling from angel-frail lips. She wanted them soft and sad and lovely, and it wasn't fair, it simply _wasn't_ – not when Loki had been born hard and bitter and ugly. He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't done it on purpose. It was just how they found him, seven years ago, out in the snow: a frozen, unwanted thing, almost as blue as the ice his mother left him in. Perhaps that's why his mother threw him away in the first place; perhaps he had been too hard, or too bitter, or too ugly, when children are meant to be all wisp and cotton and sweetness. Loki didn't know, but he hadn't _asked_ to be different, to be unlikable – he was born that way. And it was so difficult to undo what you were.

But the child did not say these things. He was seven-years-old, and cold, and weak, and half-starved, and he didn't feel like being swatted with the kitchen spoon. It hurt.

"You little liar," Ms. Spynes sniffed now, "You don't have a sorry bone in your body."

Loki did not so much as blink, his arms cupped around his shivering body. It was true. He _was_ a liar, but only because she wanted him to be one. Adults always wanted him to be bad – if he wasn't, who would they yell at? Who would they blame their broken windows on? Who would they curse when Jotunheim killed? Who would they hurt, and jeer at, and complain about? Adults loved to complain, especially about naughty children.

And anyway, if he told the truth, they would still call him a liar, so why bother?

"Okay," he replied, sitting very still. Adults liked it when you agreed with them.

Ms. Spynes made a spitting sound with her teeth.

"Okay, he says!" she hissed, to no one in particular, her words striking at the air like pinpricks of acid, "Okay! As though that makes up for the world of agony I've suffered for him – suffered for _you, _you damn little mongrel, and all for what? To have the Jotuns come in and slaughter us for keeping what they wanted dead? Oh, I've no doubt they wanted you dead, child! That father of yours –" Her voice reeled off into a string of venomous mutters, unintelligible to Loki, who remained stiff and motionless in his seat; this was not anything new to him. Finally, with a gusty sigh, his foster-mother continued, "…and still I sheltered you, I clothed you, I fed you – and you've done nothing but torment the other children! Torment _me! _Lies and tricks! That's all you'll ever be, little Laufeyson – lies and tricks!"

Loki's nails pinched through the film of his night-shirt, digging deep into his skin. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._ He would be fine and rich and glorious, an important someone who towered over the ruins of Brooklyn. Perhaps he would be famous for defeating Jotunheim single-handedly – wouldn't that be something? Then see how much they would scorn him!

But let Ms. Spynes believe what she wanted. She hated him, like everyone else.

He kept his words in his mouth.

"Nothing to say, silvertongue?" the woman clucked, turning on her heel and bustling towards the dingy kitchen sink. There was the creaky sputter of water running through the tap. "Good: go upstairs and dress yourself. I've left some clothes on your blanket. Mind you comb that rat's nest you call hair – and wash that grubby little face of yours. You aren't going to another family here in Brooklyn. No one will have you after Jotunheim's last kills. You're going –"

But Ms. Spynes' next words melted into oblivion. _You aren't going to another family here in Brooklyn. _The kitchen tipped forward in a delirium of gray, a frost-colored panic: horror clenched viselike at his lungs, crushed the breath from him. He knew. He knew. He knew what that meant. Oh, God, he _knew –!_ The terror scratched at his throat, poisoned his very blood; his little child's heart threw itself against his ribcage, nearly cracking the bone; it would burst, it would burst – _No one will have you_. Oh God, oh God, he knew what that meant – he knew what was coming – it had always be coming – how had he not seen it? How had he not known?

"N – n-n-no!" he shrieked, starting up from his chair, toppling over to the floor. "You – you c-can't! I – I won't! I won't go! Puh-p-please! D-don't do it – d-d-don't give me to them –!"

The woman spun around to face him, disgust etched into her bony features.

"Don't start begging now, little Laufeyson! You can't stay here – you've been rotten, and with Jotunheim –!"

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't, he couldn't. Could you die of fright? Loki's child-brain told him it must be true: his senses seized and flickered and his stomach knotted in on itself, a painful gnarl in his core.

"I – I c-c-can't go to Jotunheim!" he gasped, and he was too terrified, too disturbed to disdain the tears that sprung into his eyes, "You – you c-can't give me to t-them! He'll – he'll kill me! Y-you s-said it! You-you _s-s-s-said_ he wuh-wanted me d-dead!"

Ms. Spynes' face twisted incredulously. It was not kind. "Little Laufeyson, what _are _you talking about?"

But the little boy was frenzied, curled up on the chill concrete floor, bunched in his night-shirt. To a stranger, he might have looked a drowned thing; he was so white and ragged. The room leaned in on him, full of imagined enemies – was that a knock on the door? Was that the wind – or the sound of murderous breath, sucked in from thin lips? Had the Jotuns already come for him? He thought about his father, his long, sallow face, sketched for the papers; he thought about Jotunheim's three last murders, about the bodies uncovered in the snow, all emptied-out, decimated by knife and profit; all blue and bloody eye-sockets and pigeons pecking at their shells; he thought about the body parts in a butcher's freezer, about how it must have felt when the police sifted through white-crusted shelves and found human hearts wrapped up in waxy paper – he thought and thought until his nails tore at his skin, until the warm flush of blood dripped over cold cheeks.

"Puh-please, don't! Please – _don't! _

His foster-mother seized his arm, but it did no good: Loki twisted and writhed and flung himself forward, latching onto her nightgown, hysterical in his horrors.

"You c-c-can't!" His father's devil face. Human hearts in waxy paper. "You – you'll get in-in trouble! I'll-I'll tell the p-police! I'll – I'll run away! Or – or I'll k-kill myself and – and then you-you'll be in trouble!" Their dagger-looks, their blue complexions. He would be murdered, tortured; or worse, he would _become _them. "Puh-please, Ms. Spynes – you can't – you _can't!" _

There was a resounding _thwack! _as the woman slapped him across the face.

"Idiot child!" she hissed, her eyes and cheeks livid. "Look at you! Making a fuss over nothing! I'll be damned if it isn't another trick! Look at me. _Look _at me, little Laufeyson –" Loki felt needles in upper arm; Ms. Spynes was clutching him, her fingertips buried deep in his skin; she shook him once, twice, roughly, "You _aren't _going to Jotunheim. Do you hear me? Quit crying, brat! No one's giving you to the Jotuns! Why would I make a deal with them?" Another vigorous shake. "You're being sent to an orphanage – foster-care can't afford to keep you anymore. You're going to The Asgard Orphanage, it's in upstate New York, and it's entirely more than you deserve, you little runt. It's owned by a very rich man, Mr. Odinson, and he only takes in the very nicest child – no doubt he knows nothing about you! But he's taken pity on you all the same, and you'll be grateful, do you hear me? Now, go clean yourself up: you've scratched your face all up, and I won't have Mr. Odinson thinking I beat you – do you hear? Go wash your face!"

Three more shakes and Ms. Spynes threw him from her. Loki teetered, stumbling and falling back against the stairs' banister, a huddle in his long shirt. He was numb. Asgard…? Odinson…? The names meant nothing to him; they were about as much comfort as shadows. He could not believe her.

"N-no r-rich person would w-want me," he moaned, his heart still thudding horribly fast.

Ms. Spynes rolled her eyes. "Don't I know it," she spat, and placed her hands on her hips, "Listen: Mr. Odinson is a charitable man. Do you know what charity is, little Laufeyson?"

Loki twitched his head in a nod.

"Well, what is it?"

"N-not real," the boy whimpered.

"Wrong! What _is _it, you brat?"

"W-when someone d-does so-something nuh-nice for puh-poor p-people for n-no reason…"

Ms. Spynes surveyed him skeptically. "True enough," she consented, sweeping a wiry bit of hair behind her ear, "So, you see, Mr. Odinson is a charitable man. He takes in poor children for no reason, just to be nice. He hates Jotunheim, by the way. Your wicked father nearly ruined his company – stole all sorts of money! But Mr. Odinson got it all back. He's the only man more powerful than your awful daddy. Doesn't that make you happy? Quit your crying! You'll be safe there!"

More powerful than Laufey? Was that even possible? And if this Mr. Odinson hated Jotunheim – why take in Loki? Wasn't Jotunheim the reason no one in Brooklyn wanted him?

He felt cold and small. "Okay."

"Good," Ms. Spynes answered curtly. "Now stop your silly tears and go wash your face. Go now, go!"

And with that, she flapped her hands emphatically up the staircase, adding a snippy, "And I saw you eyeing up the bread. Don't you even think if touching it! It's for Rodney – call him down!" as he went.

Ms. Spynes' home was a tall, cramped, ramshackle place: its inner rooms crowded close, its staircases spiraled tightly, but its floors teetered too many feet above ground. The kitchen was a muddy little freezer with a doorway and no door; the steps Loki took now (whose very banister his foster-mother had just thrown him against) stood right outside the doorway, corkscrewing up into the higher levels of the house. It creaked under his frigid feet, and Loki thought he would not miss the splinters or the gritty feeling of dust between his toes.

His heart still thudded in his chest. It was like a prisoner, clamoring against the bars of its cell, screaming – screaming inside him because his mouth was too dry and he could not scream, could not scream. There was no way this Odinson was real; the man had to be a fairytale-name. Why would a wealthy person want him? No one in Brooklyn wanted him; his own mother had not wanted him. And he had assumed Laufey had not wanted him – though, perhaps, the crime-lord had finally found use for his bastard son. Like unraveling his veins and heart and lungs and arteries until he was a jigsaw puzzle, hidden away in a butcher's icebox. Or using him as a sort of whipping boy to vent his frustrations on when the police uncovered his latest diabolical plot. Or cutting him up and serving him to the Jotuns, all sharp yellow teeth and orange eyes. Or slicing him open and squeezing him dry and sipping his blood from fine, crystal glasses (Jenna said the Jotuns were cannibals and Laufey drank blood, but that part couldn't be true –could it? Could it?).

Where else could he go but Jotunheim?

And what could he do about it?

It wasn't like he could run away. He had nowhere to go, no one who would help him. People pretended to feel safe in their homes, but everyone knew that the Jotuns ran the streets of Brooklyn. They would find him even if he fled.

The attic bedroom was circular and claustrophobic. There were no windows here, only a dull wooden paneling that stretched a monotone brown all around them, and the stale smell of over-breathed air. Children lay sprawled on blankets and pillows, both boys and girls, twitching and shivering as cold drifted in through spiderthread cracks in the walls and ceiling. The moth-eaten sheets Ms. Spynes served as a flimsy barrier against the chill of winter. Some orphans huddled for warmth, burrowing like kittens, while others managed to curl their entire bodies into their billowy shirts. The entire room was still, filled with the soft hush of sleeping sighs, the soundless flick of dreaming eyes behind closed lids. Loki liked the kids best this way, when they were sleeping; it was the only time they left him alone.

He picked his way through the cushions and bodies, biting his tongue, trying for stealth. He did not want to wake anybody up. He did not want them to see him. If they saw him, then they would _know – _and then they would laugh and he would wish he had never been born.

_Why…was I born? Why…? _

Tears needled at his eyes again. His breath hitched in his throat.

_No, no, no. _He needed to be prideful. _Act like a grown-up. _He swallowed back a sob, a hard bubble in his throat, and held his head up stiffly. _Act like a grown-up. _

His blanket was crumpled against the wall. He slept at the very back of the room, away from the other children. It was his place of sanctuary: the hard chilly wall against his back, the rag full of holes that he drew over himself. He had no pillow, and it was the draftiest spot in the entire attic, but it was the closest thing Loki ever got to solitude. And Loki loved being alone. He wished he could be alone every day.

A pair of clothes was folded up neatly besides his blanket. Loki felt a little thrill of shock, reaching out his fingers to stroke their smooth clean whiteness. He had never seen clothes so fine before. The shirt was fresh and snow-colored, dotted with translucent little buttons that were perfectly round and perfectly shiny. It felt almost silken beneath his fingers, the stuff of rich people. And the pants were flawlessly tailored, a pale beige with cuffs that turned upward at the ends, the pockets lined with immaculate white stitching. They too felt soft, warm; they seemed to melt into his touch, mold against his fingertips. And the shoes! How they gleamed in the dark! Loki almost never wore shoes, and here was an entirely new pair, smoky-black, smelling of leather, their insides lined with cottony fabric. There were even socks to go with them. Ms. Spynes must have spent a fortune, procuring these clothes – there was not a single hole in _any _of them!

_Maybe…maybe I'm not going to Jotunheim? Maybe Ms. Spynes is telling the truth? _Loki's cheek throbbed where the woman had smacked him. _Why would she buy me fancy clothes just to give me to the Jotuns? _

Loki fingered them gently, holding them against him. Would they fit? Perhaps it was a mistake, and the clothes weren't for him.

"…wass that?"

The boy jumped, turning sharply, still clutching his clothes. A little girl was staring morosely at him, her sallow face propped up on her hands. Her brown hair was tousled around her cheeks. Jenna.

"Wasss –" Her words broke off in a yawn, long and expansive, "What's _that, _Loki? Those can't be yours. Did you steal them?"

Jenna crept around him with quiet, devious footsteps, her smile like a little blade, jabbing him. She said things to him. _Maybe Laufey will come in the middle of the night and cut open Loki! _She said things that came back in the night, when the whole world was dark, when every eye was closed; things that crawled into his heart and squeezed it until it burst, until he thought he might die.

Well, he knew how to make words hurt too, didn't he?

"I stole them from the Jotuns," he lied, "And I left a note saying I was you, so they'll come take you away instead of me."

Jenna snickered. "Liar. Why do you have them?"

"Because they're mine."

"Why?"

"Because."

"_Why?" _

Loki looked her keenly in the eye. "Because I'm leaving," he said truthfully, "I'm going away and you'll probably be here forever, you'll probably die here."

"You'll probably die in a ditch somewhere, Loki."

"You'll probably die locked up in a closet, because Ms. Spynes left you in there, and you ran out of air."

"You'll probably get run over by a car."

"You'll probably get poisoned."

"You'll probably get cut up by your daddy, because he hates you, and it'll be _really _painful."

Loki's throat tightened. "Maybe I'll kill all the Jotuns, and then _I'll _run Brooklyn – and then you'll be sorry you said that."

Jenna shrieked another laugh, pulling herself up into a sitting position, yanking her blankets to her chest greedily, "You couldn't even be a Jotun Prince, Loki. There's no way you could beat them."

Now it felt like there was a literal hand on his throat, strangling him. Bitterness laced itself with his tongue. _That isn't true, _he wanted to say, but the bitterness was so heavy, so thick, it stung his whole mouth numb. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even move his jaw. _That isn't true – that isn't – that isn't – _One day, he'd be tall and rich and strong, and then no one would doubt him, and then no one would connect him with Jotun Princes. He would likely be some sort of hero, or maybe a scientist, or some other renowned important person, but he would cast the chilliest, the most detached eye on anyone who hurt him. He would let them die. And everywhere he walked would be marble and roses and gold.

"Boy!" Ms. Spynes snapped, and Loki jumped for a second time, swinging his head toward the doorway. His foster-mother stood there, glowering, looking like a ghoul with her long pale face and wiry hair. "What's taking you so long? I told you to get dressed! Wash your face!"

Now the children stirred, hearing the voice of their nurturer.

Jenna scrambled to her feet. "Loki stole something, Martha! _Look – _he took that white shirt! Punish him!"

Eyes peeked beneath tired, saggy lids. Watching Laufey's boy get smacked around before breakfast seemed like the proper start to the morning. But, for once, the words did not produce the desired effect.

Ms. Spynes tossed a careless hand in the air. "Of course, he didn't steal them! Where would he get them? I _gave _them to him! He has to look right proper for Odinson," she turned her acid eyes back on Loki, "They're almost here to pick you up. Go. _Now!"_

Loki scurried out of the room with whispers and whining at his back. _Why does Loki get nice things? _A voice piped up, and, _He doesn't deserve it! _and _Who's Odinson? _and, most importantly, most strikingly, Jenna's voice: _Odinson! He's the richest man in the world. What does he want with Loki…? _

So Odinson _was_ real?

He thought about that while he splashed freezing water on his face at the bathroom sink. He thought about it while he soaped up his elbows and cleaned under his nails and scrubbed his teeth. He thought about it while he wriggled into the new clothes, feeling their velvetiness against his bruised skin. He thought about it while he dragged the bristly old brush through his hair, his half-curls falling, sable-colored, against his bloodless cheeks.

_Odinson is the richest man in the world. _

Who could he possibly be? And what was he going to do with Loki? His fingers fumbled as he tied his shoelaces (how did you do it again? He so rarely wore shoes. You had to – make a loop, right? – and then –?), tripping with nerves and a vague, fluttery feeling that was almost like excitement. Odinson was real. He wasn't going to Jotunheim. He wasn't. _He wasn't. _

Then again, Ms. Spynes said Odinson hated his father. Maybe Odinson wanted to kill him. He had no reason to believe the man would be kind to him, even if he was the wealthiest person on earth. No one had ever been kind to him before.

Time fell away.

He stood on a gray threshold, looking out into a gray world, watching gray flecks of snow flick past his face and tug at his bangs. Ms. Spynes stood crow-like at his side, not touching him, her neck poking out the doorway as she waited for the car to pull up against the curb. It was a shiny, metallic thing, that car, not at all like the battered tin cans that usually toted him from place to place – Loki tried not to stare at it, the navy-blue doors, the tinted, tea-colored windows. It was all so grand. He felt his stomach knot itself into a pit, clenching at the neatness and uncharacteristic cleanness of the vehicle.

_This isn't right. This is a trap. _

What choice did he have? Where could he go? What could he do?

"It's about time you've come," his foster-mother sighed as the social worker made his way up the steps. She seemed to visibly sag besides him. "I thought you decided to quit on us!"

The man grunted. "Traffic."

Loki tried not to look at him. His experience had always been that adults, most specifically strangers, did not like it when you stared at them, and he thought it particularly dangerous to upset a grown-up holding the reins to his future. He opted to glance at his shoes instead, so strangely polished against the grubby wood floor. He would be leaving here now. He would be leaving Brooklyn entirely. He would never come back, not until he was an adult himself, tall and rich and powerful.

Ms. Spynes shoved Loki's suitcase (a tattered thing held together with string) at the social worker, spewing mouthfuls of words that the boy didn't hear. He was leaving. He would never see this place again; he would never have to breathe the dust of the attic, feel the chill of the kitchen floor; suffer the crack of Ms. Spynes' wooden spoons. No more Rodney, no more Jenna. No more Brooklyn. He would be gone. Gone, gone, gone.

It was not that Loki had never been given away before. He had; many, many times; this would certainly not be his last; but it would be the first occasion where he left Brooklyn – that he stepped outside the city of his birth, that land of wire and graffiti and rot.

_Where will I go? Where will he take me? _

For all the newness of the situation, the social worker resembled any other Child Services' employee: plain and grim and silent. He hoisted Loki's suitcase over his shoulder and glanced pointedly at him.

"Kay, kid. Say goodbye."

Loki didn't say goodbye. He followed the stranger out the door, down cracked, concrete steps, over the dull brown grass of the lawn to the car. Ms. Spynes stood stiffly on the threshold, her lips pinched, her relief almost tangible. Loki kept his back to her, heart in his throat, gazing transfixed at his blurred, tensed reflection in the car's bluish paint. Leaving. Leaving. But where was he going?

The social worker opened the door with one swift jerk, ushering him in impatiently. Loki scrambled over the seats, smelling leather, thinking, _What if this is all a trap? What if he takes me to Jotunheim? What if he kills me now? If he kills me, no one will know. No one will look for me. No one will care. _The smell of leather was sharp and strong and expensive, and Brooklyn's tumbledown buildings leered at him through the tinted glass windows, like crumbling teeth. The social worker tossed his suitcase besides him before locking the door, before moving to the driver's seat. Loki clutched his luggage to him, pressing its meager contents to his stomach, imagining his body cold and pale and broken on the side of the road somewhere, a feast for the birds.

The world drizzled away into smears of snow and motion. Loki leaned his head against the window, shutting his eyes, pretending to sleep.

_Odinson is the richest man in the world. _

That meant no one would punish him – if he killed Loki. No one would bat an eye at another dead orphan, a crime-lord's bastard, a little boy left in the snow. Not compared to a man who owned everything.

When real exhaustion claimed him, Loki's body surrendered reluctantly, slipping into a small, dark place where great, foggy shapes roamed and laughed and jeered at him. He could not move, and when he tried, their huge, phantom-hands crashed down on him, crushing the breath from his lungs.

Loki woke up gasping, the windows painted fire and lilac in the setting sun. The car had stopped, its windshield-wipers swishing in flurries of snow.

"We're here," the social worker said.

* * *

_In that place, nothing breathed, except the walls._

"_I know you won't beg, Loki," _

_._

_._

_._

_Everything here kept smiling. The doors whispered. _

"_not like the other children." _

_._

_._

_._

_Hush, hush. _

_Don't speak. _

_Don't bleed._

_Forget._

* * *

Loki thinks about rehab the way he thinks about everything: with a sort of cold, detached venom.

He does not take the pills.

They put him in a soft, white room, because that's the same as suicide watch. It's on the ground floor, and the window peers out onto a rolling green lawn and perfectly combed flower-boxes, all budding blues and golds. Beyond the tamed vegetation, forests climbed choked and tangled over distant mounds, an unchecked wilderness. Psychiatrists still cling to the Romanic notion that nature will cure all sickness; that somehow the sight of grass and dirt and insects will provide a balm; that hills of trees will speak to him. But the woods never speak to Loki. They are always bitterly, bitterly silent, and when he looks into them, he sees only shadows between the branches, and thinks about how dark it must be to stand in the heart of a forest, even at midday. There, if you screamed, no one would hear you. Your cries would spiral up to forbidding branches, and fade, and you would fade also, lost in the thorn and the undergrowth.

Inside, the room is bare. There is nothing but a bed, clean sheets, and unpainted walls. The sterility and the trees are supposed to not drive you insane.

He does not take the pills.

Loki is still thinking about Romantic sensibilities, about long lines of gray-and-emerald trees and dark, silent woods blotting out your screams, and how utterly absurd it all is, when the old woman enters. Loki pretends not to notice her. He sits on the edge of the bed with his gaze fixed on the window (it's bolted shut, the panes made of a diamond-hard substance; he'll find no salvation, no escape through this clear little square in the wall – certainly, the caretakers think themselves clever, locking these windows so no patients can creep out of them in the dead of night, like teenagers on some foolhardy, surreptitious trip. Loki sometimes wonders if those same caretakers, basking in their cleverness, realize how exposed they leave their alarm system, how their security guards doze at their posts: that he knows which wires to cut, which switches unlock which doors; that he could beguile a disoriented guard. This place is riddled with escape routes. But Loki has nowhere to escape to. Nowhere, nowhere).

The old woman is a corpse of a person. Eleanor sits on the windowsill, looking neat and frank and unbidden in her secondhand jumper. She presses her back against the panes, giggling the description, her legs kicking at air. _The old woman is a corpse of a person! A corpse of a person! _

"Leave," Loki says, and it's unclear whether he says it to the old woman or to Eleanor.

At any rate, neither of them leave. The old woman wears a crumpled blue smock, standard apparel for all employees here, and she wheels a cart full of rattling canisters. And the canisters are full of pills.

But Loki does not take the pills.

The old woman's face is a leathery stitch-work, sunken and miserable. Eleanor's face is smooth and round, like the moon, and her twin braids are checkered with blood. Loki does not look at her, he does not watch the way her foot – a child's foot – swings up in the air, then descends back down in a rush of her plaid skirt. He does not turn to her laughing eyes (he knows how they laugh), pale and blue and fringed with blonde lashes, a gaze that always follows him. He knows if he looks at her, she'll smile, she'll die. And after all, she's not really there to begin with, not at all, not at all.

It starts up again, the reel of thought: _notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal goawayyoudiedimalonenotrealn otrealnotreal _

Loki chokes on a bitter, metallic flavor. Now, if only this wrinkled face on his right, crouched over her little hillock of pills – now, if only _she _wasn't real.

"You should leave your room," the woman remarks bitingly, "You should talk to the other people here."

He won't take them. He won't. He won't.

Loki glances at his hands, strange, long, languid things, dead in his lap. They are corpse-white against the pastel-blue of his pants. The old woman's blue smock, Eleanor's blue eyes, his blue pants. Outside, the sky is blue, a watery color, faded. Why is everything blue here? In the stories, in the movies, it's always white. The white drives you mad.

"I won't take them," he says. His bandages itch.

The woman hisses through her teeth. "Did I say anything about them?"

"Why else are you here?"

"It's rude not to look at people when they talk to you. D'ya know that? Do you? _Loki!_ What is it? What are you staring at? Do you see something?"

He feels a worm of rage squirm through the holes of his wasted pride. "No, you insufferable woman, I'm not _seeing_ anything –" _Don't look at her, don't look at her, don't look at her. _

Eleanor casts no shadow on the floor. When his eyes slide, unwanted, to the windowsill, she is gone.

"You wouldn't," the elder snaps, jutting up her knobby chin, "If you did as you were told. If you took your medication," her withered hands trails down a line of canisters, pinching a particular case between thumb and forefinger, shaking it for effect, "You'd be all right. Why can't you just do as you're told?"

Indeed – why can't he?

Those words are like phantoms, throwing the dusty old veils of his childhood across the room, a whole spool of brown-spotted memories. _Why can't you just do as you're told? _Loki thinks every foster parent, every caretaker, every doctor he has encountered has told him exactly this – the same sharp mouth, the cutting, disappointed eye, the wire-tight jaw. _I told you to do something. Why can't you just do it, you unwanted thing. _Perhaps that's why he has always been so very unwanted: his inability to comply with anything anyone has ever told him, that inherent difficultness inside of him.

Loki cannot describe it – it's in his essence to be contrary, to _not _obey. His entire life, people have surveyed him through a lofty, dissecting gaze, condemning him as a collection of rags and bones, meant to be shushed in a corner somewhere and kept quiet until rot took him. And those sneering glances – that knowledge that he is, somehow, of a lesser build; a ugly thing that needs to be put-away; an odious chore that must be dealt with quickly – they have always smoldered against him, bit into his heart. Put poison in his mouth. Deep down, buried beneath the tight coils of his resentment, Loki realizes their appraisals are right, but they stir up that prickly willfulness in him all the same. He knows he's nothing more than a blue-lipped orphan left out with the trash, but being reminded of it constantly grates on his nerves.

And anyway, about the pills, he just won't take them.

"Obedience has simply never sat well with me," he supplies now, smiling tightly, a false twist of the mouth.

The caretaker huffs. "And that's why you're here again."

The bandages over his wrists feel viselike: they are dull and dingy-colored and press too-close to the mending smiles on his wrists.

"Again, and again, and again. It's always the same with you. Don't you look at yourself, Loki? Don't you ever _see _yourself? Here three times in the last two years – it's a sad deal to be here _once."_

Loki picks idly at his bandages. They do not bleed. "It is unfortunate. But this is the only rehabilitation center that government funds will provide. So, you see, we are forced to endure each other's presence on more than one occasion – painful as it may be."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," the old woman's lips pucker sourly around her retort; he sees it out of the corner of his eye, "You're wasting away. All day and all night, in this room – doing what? Dreaming about death? You've tried it several times now, and each time, it's failed. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is, but do you listen? Do you listen to anyone – to any_thing? _Can't you at least try to get better? Don't you see the strain you put on other people; all the trouble you cause? All these people, here to help you, and you don't give a damn, you don't –"

"All these people," Loki cuts in evenly, his voice like the balanced point of a blade, "All these people required to help me because of protocol, wishing as much as me that I was already dead."

Silence damns them. Outside, a bird careens through a pale sky, its wings slicing through cloud. Eleanor's at the window again, swinging her legs, her fingers picking at one of her braids.

Loki wishes he could feel something, some sort of anger or indignation, but the litany of complaints pouring from the old woman's mouth are too familiar. _You won't behave. You're a burden. You're difficult. _He has heard these things before: a hundred different tongues have said them, and a hundred more will continue to say them before this deplorable life bleeds itself dry. They cascade over him like snow on numb skin, unfeeling; he cannot feel their weight any longer; there's nothing inside him, nothing, nothing, only a deep-seated tiredness and a heart that has not stopped beating.

"That's an awful thing to say," the caretaker finally remarks, waspishly.

Eleanor turns towards them, her expression hawkish. "They don't want you dead, Loki. Just everybody else. You're the favorite. You'll keep me alive, won't you? _You _won't let them kill me."

Something cold needles the back of his neck. His lungs constrict, and he doesn't know why, because he's heard these particular words _more _than a hundred times – and they should fall like snow, not stones.

And they are phantom-words. Not real. Not real. Not real.

"Just go," Loki hisses, and again, neither heeds him.

There's a rattle as the old woman shakes two white pills out of a canister, drops them on a tray, removes a water bottle from her cart.

"Just take them," she says, "And whatever nightmares you're having, they'll go away," but Loki cannot take them.

He cannot take them because someone told him to, because someone wants him to open his mouth and swallow them on command, like a clockwork toy, and if he does that, he'll be giving himself over entirely; he'll belong to them – to white coats and clipboards, to doctors and professionals and strangers who resuscitate him on impulse because protocol dictates it. He cannot take them because if he does, he might start needing them, they might become a part of him, and he'll spend his whole life crawling after a chalky white taste in his mouth and a quick sip of water, a quarter of a person (he's already only half a man, you see), hanging on prescriptions, begging at doctors' coat-tails. He cannot take them because at this moment Eleanor's sitting on the windowsill, and a foggy sun is spilling its pearly shine all over her head, and there's a bruise flowering under her left eye, and a gash on her lip, and blood in her braids – and she's extending her hands towards him, and she's saying, "You won't let them kill me, will you?" and now the faces of the Dead Children crowd in from their graves, and faraway, another voice lilts: _I'll always be watching you, always, always. _

And besides, they could be poison. Gajra tells Loki that he's paranoid, but he knows better.

This whole world is a poison.

"I won't take them."

The old woman sighs, snatching up the tray, slapping it down on the plain little table that the room provides him with. The water bottle quakes, the pills skitter against an aluminum surface.

"I can't force them down your throat," she mutters irritably, as though she wishes she could, "Because it's against the rules here. But you just wait, Loki. You keep not taking them, you keep holing yourself up in here, you keep – making attempts, and they'll put you someplace where they can do whatever they want to you. Then you'll be wishing you were here – that is, if you're aware of anything at all."

With that ominous tiding, the ancient caretaker jerks the cart away from its resting spot on the threshold and trundles down the corridor. Loki does not move at all, sitting with long pale fingers steepled in his lap. His bandages itch unbearably, and he realizes someone will have to come in soon and change them.

He has already been to places where people have done whatever they wanted with him.

Eleanor stops swinging her feet, her knuckles churning white and gray as she clutches at the windowsill in sudden agitation.

"Loki," she says, blonde lashes ghosting over pale, unseeing eyes, "How do you suppose that old woman knew your name?"

* * *

Everyone knows everybody's name at the Thorn Acre Rehabilitation Center (or TARC, for short). First names, supposedly, encourage intimacy and companionship among the staff and patients; they encourage Loki to throw himself out of a tenth-story window for spite.

At exactly three o'clock, every afternoon, a cleaning crew comes in to root out the patients' rooms. They strip the beds, wash the windows, scrub away the dust – and check behind the furniture for stray scalpels, smuggled drugs, bits of glass, matches, tools or spots of blood. Anything unusual is automatically reported to TARC's head. It reminds Loki sharply of a boarding school (he has never attended one, but as a boy, he read plenty of children's books about preteens shipped off to all sorts of absurd homes), the ailing inmates like untrustworthy, dangerous adolescents closely watched and scrutinized.

Anyway, patients are not allowed to be in their room during cleaning hours. Loki sits in what could be deemed the "common room," an empty, white space, littered with plain upright chairs and squat sofas with hard cushions and long windows framed in threadbare curtains. He leans against the window now, its glass cold against his temple; he's reclining in the very corner of the room, half in shadow, his seat propped up besides the flimsy, ghostlike drapes.

Almost everyone is outside, murmuring in the gardens, some people even talking to one another, but Loki has no desire to head outside and imagine the trees swallowing him. He stays in, his temple touching glass, his elbows on one of the little desks the common room offers. He has taken a pen out from one of its drawers (stupid of them, to give access to utensils like pens and pencils. Don't they realize how easily Loki could stab somebody in the eye with one?) and now taps it methodically against the table's surface. _One, two, three. One, two, three. _In the back of his mind, deep in his subconscious, something happens: the chords of a melody begin to weave themselves from his thoughts, one two three, one two three, phantom notes that float and fall and hum and sing and whisper. They braid together into tendrils of half-made song, elusive tempos and subtle shimmers of sound. Loki closes his eyes, submerging himself in a dark, ethereal place, feeling the shadow of piano-keys beneath his fingertips.

He does not consider himself an artist. Artists are puffed-up, romantic figures, declaring their art to be their hearts, their souls; their life's blood. Music is none of these things to Loki. Indeed, he has never once referred to his pieces as a "part of him" or a symbolic "reflection of himself" – such talk is sentimental, dripping, and meaningless. Music is a collection of audible sensations. It's mathematical. The process of making melodies, of blending different sounds, of testing notes against each other, it's a mechanical thing and it keeps Loki's mind busy, it distracts him from himself.

If his compositions are grim, or unsettling, or even – as some people have claimed – _sad,_ it's a coincidence.

"Loki," a voice disrupts his shadowy composing, "You…have a visitor."

He opens his eyes, a slow, poisonous gesture, and turns to the speaker. It's another caretaker, a tall, stooping man with curly red hair. He stares down at him, looking utterly baffled.

"What?" Loki asks cuttingly, his fingers pinching on the pen as if it's a dagger. He resents human contact at all times, but most especially when he's threading songs.

But the caretaker remains wide-eyed and gawking, swallowing like a baited fish. Charming.

"What?" Loki hisses again, the pen folding deeper into his clutching fingers, his tongue already curling in derision. He has no desire to be here, in this damnable, cracked, suffocating place – they force blood into his unwilling body, they drag him to this prison, and now they disturb him for no reason?

The caretaker blinks. "You – a visitor," he sputters, "You have a visitor."

But that's complete nonsense.

"The therapist sees me on Thursdays, you idiot," he snarls, his gaze full of needles as he narrows it on the gaping man, "You've made some mistake."

Loki tilts his gaze back towards the window. It's true, of course. Besides Gajra, who receives paychecks for talking with him on Thursdays, he knows no one willing to visit him.

The caretaker, apparently, has enough brain cells to realize he's been insulted. He draws himself up, affronted, and clears his throat messily before spitting his retort. The sound grates on Loki's eardrums.

"You're in no position, calling me names like that. Who do you think you are?" Loki sees the redhead's hands ball up into fists in the corner of his eye, and a burble of bitter laughter scratches at his throat. No one. Loki is no one, so why should this man even bother to be offended? "And you _do _have a visitor, though why he's visiting you, I'll never know –"

_He. _

The caretaker's insults fall away from him, like pine needles from a dying tree. _He. _An image flashes through his mind, a laughing image, and his throat constricts, a taste like ash and wormwood soaking his tongue. But no, no, it couldn't possibly be him – the very idea is ridiculous, repulsive, senseless – and it must be some sort of error, some sort of mistake, albeit an infuriating one.

_What a foolish notion, Laufeyson. He has forgotten you, certainly. Yes, he made the stunt at the hospital, but he would not go so far as to follow you here. _

"Who would possibly –" Loki begins, anger curling around his words, but at that moment something utterly wretched and entirely unforgiveable happens.

"Why am I being kept waiting?"

A voice – a familiar voice, as much as Loki wishes it isn't so – thunders across the room. It's a commanding sort of voice, the type that is not only accustomed to being listened to, but also being indulged and obeyed. The raw skin, the grinning lacerations beneath his bandages, begin to burn and itch at the sound of that voice.

"No," Loki says, but he cannot project his voice over a whisper, and honestly, this cannot be happening to him. Not now. Not ever. "No."

Thor Odinson strides into the area, gleaming, like a prince who has lost his way and now stumbles into an unworthy dwelling. His hair falls, burnished gold, around a broad, proud jawline, and his eyes crackle an electric blue, flicking with appraising energy over the beaten furniture and weathered wallpaper. He wears what he probably considers causal clothes, ink-blue jeans and a loose, red jacket that droops around his wide shoulders like a cape, its richness echoing an air of royalty. The shirt beneath is dark and indistinct, but Loki feels certain it costs more than his entire wardrobe put together.

"Ouu, isn't he lovely?" Eleanor murmurs, and Loki feels her cold, dead fingers close around his hand. He has to fight the urge to jerk away from her touch, bile rising in his throat. There must be a noose around his neck, because he cannot breathe and his lips feel cold and his heart is pounding wildly in his ears.

_Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal sheisnthereshesnottouchingyo uwhatishedoinghereisherealwh yisheherewhyishehereillkillh imhowdarehehowdarehehowdareh e_

_How dare he. How dare he. _

He centers on those three words, gripping them like a lifeline, anchoring himself on the hate and the fury and the indignation. Those are solid, secure emotions; they ground him. And anything is better than that sick unraveling inside of him, those shadows always crouched on the rim of his consciousness, threatening to blot out all thought – all memory – all logic. If his mind tips into that deluge of panic, he will not remember himself; they will call him mad; and Odinson – Odinson will _see. _

_He came here to laugh at you, _a voice whispers in his ear, and Loki's stomach roils in a tumult of rage, a resentment that cripples his entire body.

_How dare he. How dare he. He wants to hurt me – I'll hurt him. I'll hurt him. _

Odinson does not merely walk into the common room. He stomps. His feet are ensconced in large, rugged leather boots, a pair of shoes that would likely pay Loki's rent for a year or more. The battered floor greets his every footfall with a domineering _thud, _and each thud sends a shock of nausea and bitterness through Loki. He grips the sides of the table in his hands, his breath hissing through his teeth.

"I've been waiting –" Odinson starts, but sputters to a halt when he sees Loki sitting by the window.

_He thinks your ugly_, the voice in his ear now sneers, _He has forgotten how very ugly you are – _

The caretaker jitters when he sees the man, freckled hands jumping at his sides, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He makes a few harried steps towards him.

"Um – ahem – Mr. Odinson, uh – sir. You – aren't allowed in here; visitors need to stay in the – the waiting room until the patient decides…So sorry –"

He's a fan. Of course. Nausea sweeps over Loki.

"Oh, no," he breathes, pushing himself up from his seat, his gaze fixed rigidly on the athlete, "Stars don't have time for menial things like waiting rooms. Besides, they are above such regulations," his every word is plated with cool venom, "They do as they please."

Odinson looks mildly queasy. "Laufeyson –" he begins, but Loki does not let him finish.

He has no choice but to endure Eleanor and Gajra and the trees and the old woman and her pills and the despicable white rooms that are gutted every afternoon for scalpels and spots of blood. He has no choice but to endure the itching bandages and the sting of antiseptic and the flat disappointed stares of the doctors he loathes.

But he will _not _endure this. He will _not_, will _not_. He refuses.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Loki hisses, acutely aware of his limp black hair, the bruises rising purple beneath his eyes; the uniform with its loose ties laced up his back. Odinson must think him pathetic. He must have come here to mock him. "If this is another publicity stunt – a follow-up to the hospital – I swear to you, you _will _regret this –"

Odinson swells like a thundercloud, an unearthly lightning snapping in his eyes.

"Does this _look _like a publicity stunt? Where are the cameras? The reporters? Do you have people trying to interview you –"

Loki laughs, a scathing sound that burns his throat. "And what does that matter? Even if it was allowed, you don't need cameras in here. You just need a fan – an _adorer _– to spot you leaving this place. You think I don't know how media works? You don't need a single picture of me to profit off of this."

Odinson's expression clouds, and Loki feels something hot and bitter churn in his stomach, his mind screaming in his ear, _Of course, he does not think you would know how his life works; you are not glamorous enough for media; he knows you are ugly; he sees how ugly you are; how pathetic – he's here to mock you, he's here to make you hurt._

"You –" The athlete begins, bitingly, and then he seems to reign himself in, his mouth pinched tight against a torrent of angry words. _His agent told him not to say anything he will regret_, Loki's mind tells him. Odinson draws a ragged breath, muttering, "I assure you, Laufeyson, that was not my intention when I decided to visit you."

"Then did you come simply to gawk at the commoners?"

Odinson reels back as though slapped; it does nothing to subside the terrible clawing feeling inside of Loki, that sensation that something thorny and wicked and knifelike now slices through his chest.

"You –" the athlete spits out each word roughly, "You – are – _unbearable." _

Loki needs to force his voice through a dry windpipe. "Then go," he whispers, his tone like leaves shriveling under a hot autumn sun, and every inch of him feels as though its been punctured with IVs: little uninviting stabs that pump poison into his veins, "Go."

Distantly, he sees Eleanor press hands over her trembling mouth – laughing or crying, he does not know.

It does not matter. Odinson rears himself up high and regal, and says, "No."

The whole world goes still for a moment. Loki cannot breathe: there is an airlessness, a pressure, an intangible weight that crushes him.

_You cannot stop him from doing what he wants. You have no power. You can do nothing, nothing, nothing. _

_nothing_

_nothing_

_nothing _

"Go," he says again, and he's thinking about someone small and drowned and ragged, crying in an abandoned warehouse, black hair clinging to pallid skin – the type of skin that looks like the underbelly of a fish, blue-gray, gray-blue; a dead fish. He thinks about a sticky, red feeling on his hands, and a cold that lies still and heavy in his lungs, and revulsion spikes sharp and violent inside of him. He needs to hurt someone. He needs to blot out this memory – this boy, this thing, this little corpse. He needs to hurt the one whose hurting him. He needs to. He needs to – "Go, or I swear, I _swear_ I'll make you regret it." And hurt. hurt. hurt.

Odinson opens his mouth, but the caretaker intervenes, his hands fluttering in an ungainly, nervous manner. He's gone green beneath his freckles, and his voice is small and tinny, but he announces anyway,

"I'm – so sorry, Mr. Odinson, but –" His eyes seem to flounder, clearly distressed about contradicting someone he so obviously idolizes, "But you…you can't force your company onto a patient. If – if Laufeyson does not want you here…policy states…I don't have a choice –"

"He doesn't want _anyone'_s company!" Odinson thunders. "He's bitter – he's_ miserable_ – to everyone he meets!"

Loki laughs, a wild thing in his throat. "When have I not heard that? Do you think your words hurt me, Odinson? Do you think you can cut me?" _He is hurting you. He is always hurting you. He's cutting you with his eyes, the color of sky and lightning, those eyes that hold and drop you, they know you're ugly. So ugly. They hurt, those eyes. They cut. _

"Please…" the caretaker begs, taking harried, careful steps, "Please, please…"

"I have never once tried to hurt you," Odinson retorts levelly, though his voice smolders like a storm, "I have done the exact opposite: I saved your life."

Loki feels all at once breakable and razor-sharp. Beneath his bandages, those half-mended smiles cut into his wrists scream. And he cannot breathe. He cannot breathe.

He hears Eleanor, "Go away, go away," but her words are phantoms, pale things that dissolve on the air, and Loki does not know who she wants to banish: "Go away, go away, go away."

But she is not real and Odinson does not hear her.

"You think…" he breathes, and he sounds low, and haunted, and loathing, "That because you did this…" The words drag at his throat; they are so hard to say; so hard to push out of his strangled vocal chords, "…that I somehow owe you? That you somehow _own _me?"

Odinson appears disturbed by the motion. His brow crumples and Loki thinks he hears, faint as it is, a hitch in his breathing. The wavering in his eyes gives Loki a savage pleasure. He wants to break that smug face, that offensive pride.

_He comes here to mock you. To hurt you. To hurt. _

"No…" the golden man trails, then swallows, "But I still saved your life."

The words drop like anvils through tissue paper. There is something wriggling inside of Loki: something ugly, and poisonous, and painful, and Loki thinks he might vomit it up. The walls blur around him and his ear catches a voice, singing. Where does it come from? Where? Where?

He feels very cold. "It wasn't yours to save."

Odinson stomps in an arrogant fury. "So I should have let you die?"

Loki thinks about a hotel room like the inside of a gilded eggshell and its curtains pouring like liquid gold and the soft hiss of water falling from a bronze showerhead and how everything, everything, everything had faded into velvet shadows that caressed and held and cradled him – and Odinson wouldn't understand that, no, no, Odinson could never understand the need to become nothingness. He could not understand that, at that one moment, that one singular moment, in that bathroom where the water whispered and his blood floated across the tiles like lotuses, that he was almost beautiful. Almost. Almost. Almost.

And now he sits here like a corpse wrapped up in bandages, rotting in this ugly little cell, sucking in dirty air, and he's more dead than ever.

"You had no right to choose," he hisses, "Whether I should live or die."

Odinson's face clouds over. "Now, listen here, Laufeyson. I don't care what you say. You should be grateful –"

But Loki has had enough. Years spent on repeat, cycling between two seasons – a gray one and a red one – the gray one the dull, lifeless existence spent wasting behind white walls – the red one being _Before – _the endless monotony that was "What do you see in the ink blots, Loki?" and "How are you feeling, Loki?" and "We're going to lock you up, Loki," and the hours spent not sleeping and the faint memory of something red (the red season is _Before, _after all) and Eleanor's chilly little hand in his and the liquid sound of someone he can't see singing and the black spaces in his day and the canister of pills he won't take and _red is the color of the season that is Before _and Odinson is telling him to _listen here? _

"No," Loki snarls, advancing on him, while the caretaker gawps in slack-jawed horror, "I will not _listen here_. I am rotting in this hellhole because of you. I am being drugged, dissected and imprisoned as a direct result of your arrogance, you – _absurd – pompous – self-important – bastard," _and red is the color of the season that is Before and it is also the color of his hatred, it's the color that flares in his vision now, dyeing his words in rich scarlet flames, "And now, you will listen here – _Thor Odinson," _Loki spits the title out like a curse and it almost drowns out the soft singing only he hears, a voice that dips and eddies in madness and sins, "You will stay away from me. Do you understand? You _will _stay away from me. Because, if you do not, I will make you regret it: I will make you wish you never met me – if you do not already."

He turns on his heel, in time to see the caretaker gulping like a fish, Odinson's eyes flashing lightning. He feels the weight of those eyes pinned on his back, and his body cringes beneath the near-gauzy clothes he must where here. Loki pictures his skin beneath the film of the shirt, gray-white and stretched thin over his spinal cord and he needs Odinson to leave _now. _

The caretaker shuffles forward, mumbling something between an order and an apology. Loki flicks his gaze over the naked white walls and yawning windowpanes, wishing he could leave but knowing his room is still being gutted. He's exposed here, like a bone jutting from split flesh.

And then Odinson speaks, and he says only one word:

"Loki."

He holds very still. He imagines himself a bone, cracked and open, sticking up from diseased flesh. He imagines his gray-white skin, clinging to his spinal column, peeping through the gauze of his wardrobe. He imagines blood under his fingernails. And he imagines Odinson, standing there, with his hair like a mane of golden sunlight and his coat like the crimson-red of royalty.

"Don't – _ever_ – call – me – _Loki." _

_Because red is the color of the royalty and it's the color of the season that is Before, it's the color of things that hide in the dark, it's the color that wraps around a boy in a warehouse in a memory. _

* * *

TARC requires physicals.

Loki stands with his arms crossed around him while the doctor discusses his body with the rehab's head. The information will be recorded on a computerized document and emailed to Gajra, who will likely print it out and keep it in a file labeled "LAUFEYSON."

His blood count has risen, the doctor explains, but he is malnourished, he vomits too frequently, his body temperature has fallen too low, and he has dropped too much weight. Entirely too much weight.

When they leave the room (it's a icy cubicle sort of place, with tiled floors and medical equipment hanging from the walls like torture devices), Loki steps forward and surveys himself in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall.

They needed to remove his shirt sometime during the physical, and as he stares at his reflection, he wonders idly if it's normal to be able to count your ribcage: a series of delicate arches on either side of his torso, blanketed by the thinnest, whitest bit of skin.

Logically, of course, Loki knows its not, but somewhere deeper, in some bleak, apathetic, bitter corner of his mind, he cannot help but think, _Does it even really matter?_

"Loki. I heard you had a visitor."

* * *

He has not seen Eleanor since Odinson confronted him, but the singing has not ceased. A vague, bubbling voice, a crescendo of echoes, murmuring and laughing and overlapping and he doesn't know what it sings but he knows he doesn't want to hear it.

It's notrealnotrealnotreal, but still Loki doesn't sleep.

"Loki – please, don't ignore me. You're angry about the visit?"

His eyes shift to Gajra. They're in the common room, the very room Odinson accosted him in, only this time both Loki and his visitor sit at the table by the window, on stiff little chairs. He notices that Gajra appears more strained than usual: she's twisted her usually straight hair into a wispy bun and her mocha skin is bruised and heavy beneath her eyes. Her expression, as always, is open.

Loki does not want to be around her. He does not want to talk about Odinson. He wants to be alone. Alone.

Gajra leans forward on her elbows. "Are you giving me the silent treatment? Because, honestly, we both know how childish that is –"

"Of course, I'm angry," Loki bites off his words with singular annoyance, "I can't believe you would let him in here. It's obviously a ploy; he's a complete oaf; he can't hear a thing over his own ego –"

His therapist shakes her head patiently. "You're completely misreading the situation. He just wants to talk with you. He wants to get to know you."

Outside, a raven wheels over the woods. Loki watches as it circles, a black dot, making black haloes over green trees.

"That is completely absurd."

He catches the hint of a smile in Gajra's composed mouth, and a hot anger seethes in his stomach. Is this amusing? Is Odinson barging in here to make a mockery out of himself _entertaining? _

"Why is it absurd?" she asks.

The raven makes black halos. The secret voice sings. Loki closes his eyes, but he does not sleep.

"What reason does he have to talk with me?" he prompts, tearing his gaze from the window and latching it onto the ceiling. He speaks very slowly, as though to someone who doesn't understand simple logic, "I'm a complete stranger. I'm nothing to him – an inconvenience that ruined his night, perhaps. He has no reason to want to 'get to know me,' as you keep insisting."

But Gajra does not hesitate in her response to him.

"Your suicide attempt scared him."

Loki snorts. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Black birds make black halos. Secret voices sing secret songs. And these things are notrealnotrealnotreal and neither is Odinson. He's just a face on a television screen, a glossy picture in a magazine.

"It did," she insists, her words steady and self-assured, "I think you scare him, Loki. I think everything about you scares him."

Now Loki jerks his gaze to her, a gob of anger hardening in his throat.

"Don't insult me. You and I both know he's stronger than me. I won't be mocked by these _ridiculous _notions –"

"Regardless of Thor's size," Gajra steamrolls past Loki's fury, "He's still terrified of you. You're forcing him to step out of himself – you're making him realize that not everyone is as privileged as he is."

A sour taste curdles on Loki's tongue. "I refuse to be Odinson's charity project just so he can feel better about himself," the stinging flavor in his mouth seeps down his throat, infecting his answers with its sharpness, "And besides, he lacks the mental capabilities to come to such conclusions. He stormed in here like it was his home, demanding that I act grateful for his drunken accident. He probably expected me to ask for an autograph, or kiss his shoes –"

Gajra winces at the description, a sign of discomfort briefly eclipsing her calm exterior.

"Thor is very naïve. I'm sure he's been spoiled his entire life. However he said it, what he meant was –"

But Loki refuses to listen. That sour taste has dripped through his entire body, and now his organs knot and tighten in an agonized resentment. His next words feel like dragging a rusted blade across the inside of his throat.

"So I am supposed to _pity_ Odinson because he has been given everything he's ever wanted?"

Gajra closes her eyes. "No," she says, and she looks and sounds sad, her voice a frail wisp of a thing, a half-dream, dissolving on a steel reality. Her lashes lay in still, dusky rings against the bags beneath her eyes. "No. You're right, Loki. It's completely unfair – your life and his," her statement teeters, and Loki knows she's thinking about the orphanage, about that despicable irony: his father owned the orphanage that Loki was stolen from. A viper coils in the pit of his stomach, waiting for Gajra to vocalize the fact; but she doesn't and he feels almost grateful, "It's human that you would have this resentment."

Loki says nothing. There is, truly, nothing to say to this. He wishes Gajra would leave.

She folds her brown hands in front of her. "But I think you're terrified of him too. I think you're terrified of the idea that someone might want to know you – that someone might decide to be kind to you without wanting anything in return. And that's exactly what Thor wants to do. And that's why I think you should have at least one conversation with him – a _real _conversation, _not _an argument – and that's why I'm going to organize a communal therapy session between the three of us when you're released from here."

The viper springs; it sinks its fangs into his heart; it poisons him; it shrivels his voice in his throat; it burns his blood; it strangles his lungs –

"_What?" _

But Gajra only laughs. Literally laughs, her slim shoulders shaking.

"Honestly, Loki, its not like I asked you to go on a date with him."


End file.
